


A Fistful of Dreams

by Philosophics



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fiction-Typical Science, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mission Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Drugs, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8743936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophics/pseuds/Philosophics
Summary: Between Overwatch operations, his chronic bouts of insomnia, and the nefarious plots of a certain terrorist organization, McCree rarely finds himself without a busy moment these days. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to weather it alone.





	1. 03:08

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yup, here i am. with a new longfic. i really don't know what my life is anymore.
> 
> the working title for this was 'fluffy domestic action-spy flick'. take that as you will.

 

The only coffee in the Gibraltar base is of the instant variety--sealed bags of pre-ground beans imported in bulk from who-knows-where, slightly stale and patently mediocre. It does the job, though, so McCree can’t complain. Or so he tells himself while gazing morosely into the dark depths of a mug of the stuff before he tips it back and takes a long draught. It tastes flat and kind of watery, but it’s hot and black as he likes it and the bite of bitterness is welcome.

“It is three AM.”

McCree looks up toward the source of the quiet voice. Hanzo’s standing at the kitchen entrance, eyes shadowed and stance loose. He’s wearing his casual robes and his hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. The low lighting does little to illuminate him as he steps forward.

“Why, so it is,” McCree says. “Evenin’ to you too, darlin’.”

Hanzo’s gaze flickers over his figure slouched at the table, resting briefly on the cup in his hands. “Somewhat late for coffee, is it not?”

“Could be early, depending on how y’look at it.”

They have less than four hours until they have to be awake for a mission briefing which McCree foresees to be only the beginning of a long day ahead. But insomnia, much like a spiteful family member, is demanding, unignorable, and inclined to impose when it’s most inconvenient. He takes another swig of coffee.

Hanzo frowns. “I thought you were settled in already.”

It comes off a smidge reproachful, a touch standoffish, but McCree knows it’s his way of asking if he’s okay.

“Old habits’re hard to kick,” he replies with a shrug and a wry twist of his lips. A half-answer, barely satisfactory. Hanzo doesn’t call him out on it, however, just squints at him a bit before he pads over to the tap to fill a glass with water. Then he drops into the chair across from him.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“A suspicion,” Hanzo answers vaguely. McCree suspects that’s all he’s going to get out of the other man so he leaves it at that.

They sit for several minutes in silence. Hanzo’s hand is curled loosely on the table next to his glass; McCree almost reaches toward it to thread their fingers together--a passing urge that starts as a faint tingling in his fingertips and travels up along his arm like a ripple--but he stops himself at the last moment. The other man doesn’t look at him, just stares blankly at his glass with an absent frown, scarcely remembering to drink from it. He probably doesn’t notice, either, how his eyelids gradually droop to half-mast. McCree tosses back the rest of his coffee then stands, grabbing both his own cup and Hanzo’s half-empty, long-since abandoned one and depositing them in the sink.

“Well, I'm ‘bout tuckered out. Shall we?”

Hanzo nods and they leave the kitchen together. McCree rests a hand lightly on the small of the other man’s back as he falls into step beside him, not so much to guide as it is to simply feel the warmth of him against his palm. The hallways are deserted and hushed, the way dimly lit by the muted glow of the lights set into the steel grey walls.

When the two of them arrive at McCree’s door, instead of continuing down the hall to his own room Hanzo stops with him. His expression doesn’t change as he watches McCree press the fingers of his right hand to the small square panel in the wall without a word. McCree suppresses a smile as the door slides open, looking to Hanzo with a courteous tip of his head. The other man gives the slightest of sniffs but steps into the room readily enough. McCree follows at his heels, the door shutting silently behind him, leaving them in darkness. He’s grateful for it; it helps hide the sight of the various clothes and other miscellaneous articles strewn about his floor and furniture. He’ll get around to picking those up. Eventually.

With only the briefest hesitation, Hanzo toes off his slippers and undoes his ponytail before crossing over to twin-size bed, sitting down and relaxing back on one side of the mattress. McCree kicks off his shoes and socks as well, then shucks his t-shirt and sweatpants and climbs in after him, drawing the standard-issue blanket over the both of them as he goes. He shifts onto his side so they’re facing each other, heads pillowed, close enough to feel each other’s exhales.

The silence settles around them like a physical presence, like it has weight. He can nearly feel it against his skin like a tangible, delicate thing. His throat is dry and useless; he’s not sure he could form words even if he had any.

Hanzo speaks, nearly startling him. “Morrison informed me of the cuisine called ‘Tex-Mex’.”

It’s inane and mundane and entirely unexpected. McCree can’t help letting out a laugh at the absurdity of it, a quiet huff of a chuckle through dry lips. “Did he now? What brought that up?”

“I was discussing the upcoming mission with him--the one in Los Angeles. He said that one can find many different types of food there, which is when he mentioned the term.”

McCree shakes his head. Typical Morrison. “Tex-Mex, huh? In LA? Gotta go a bit further south than that. Better yet, skip that ‘n’ get yourself ‘cross the border for some real good grub.”

Hanzo hums sleepily, eyes slipping closed. It’s obvious he’s only half-paying attention, if at all. He grows quiet. Before long, his breathing evens out.

It takes McCree at least another half, maybe three-quarters of an hour to fall asleep, but it’s alright. It gives him an excuse to admire the other man’s peaceful features resting a mere few inches away undisturbed.

 

\---

 

They started this  _thing_ , the two of them, five weeks back. Or maybe it began much earlier, months and months ago, and they just didn’t realize it, or perhaps had refused to look at it too closely, until they did. And then all of a sudden everything began to fall into place--stolen glances, companionable exchanges, shared smiles, touches, morning coffee, kisses sweet and tender and rough and _hot--_ to form something very possibly perfect.

They’re taking it slow. McCree’s fine with that. More than fine with it. Some days, the urge bubbles up in him to climb to the rooftop and shout it at the top of his lungs for all the world to hear--and he absolutely would in a heartbeat if it wouldn’t likely tempt painful retribution--but he doesn’t, because he knows Hanzo. There’s no shame about what they’re doing, about _them_ , and they’re not trying to hide it, really, so it’s not like there’s anyone on the team who doesn’t know by now. But the archer's a private man by nature, likes to keep his affairs near to himself, and, well, McCree sure doesn’t mind exercising some discretion if it means he gets to be held so close by him.

They’re still figuring things out, will likely be for a while. It’s all still new and uncharted and maybe he’s kind of in over his head if he’s being honest with himself, but McCree’s spent most of his life in over his head--tends to dive into things head-first, in fact--so he’s had a lot of practice treading water. Also, journey not destination and all that.

“Here y’are.”

Hanzo accepts the latte he’s offered with a murmured thanks, fingers wrapping around the paper heat sleeve. As he takes a careful sip of the hot drink, his eyes sweep their surroundings for signs of suspicious activity. The sun has just risen, casting the streets of Los Angeles, not quite yet filled up with its usual bustle, in pale light. There’s nothing out of the ordinary--at least, not yet--just the occasional jogger or grumpy passerby with a briefcase and a phone pressed to their ear.

“It’s way too damn early,” McCree grumbles, clutching his overpriced americano. He barely resists the urge to crack a huge yawn. Thankfully for him, LA is one of those cities that has coffee shops that are open at six in the morning.

“Focus. This will likely be a highly dangerous mission.”

“I am. ‘S why, yanno”--he gestures at his cup, probably his third since six AM back in Gibraltar--“coffee. To wake up.”

“Technically, we’ve already been awake for seven hours,” Hanzo points out.

“Maybe _you_ have.”

_“--Agents, do you copy?”_

“Loud 'n’ clear, Jack,” McCree replies cheerfully to the voice from his earpiece.

 _“For the last time, McCree, it’s_ 76.”

“Whatever ya say, boss.”

_“Everyone on location?”_

A chorus of affirmatives.

_“Good. You know the plan. Scout out your block and be in position by oh-seven hundred hours.”_

They’ve been over this in the morning briefing. Athena’s been impressively astute with monitoring Talon activity recently. Based on her intel, the AI predicted that the terrorist org will be targeting two prominent omnic ambassadors who are currently in town for some sort of peace conference--which, in McCree’s opinion, are always anything but peaceful--planning to strike while their targets are en route to the conference center. Of course, the ambassadors’ own security service are almost certainly blissfully unaware of the threat and so, it being on such short notice, Overwatch is taking it into their own hands to provide additional, unofficial security, yada yada. A typical day on the job.

McCree tosses his empty paper cup into a nearby trash can.

“Ready to roll out?”

Hanzo nods, discarding his own cup. As they leave, McCree notes, with some amusement, that the sign outside the joint next to the coffee shop reads _Baja Grill & Cantina._

 

 

 

The four of them--Morrison, Lena, Hanzo, and him--spread themselves out along the short route from the targets’ lodgings, a swanky hotel in Beverly Hills, to the convention center. They have a good idea where Talon might strike if they do: along the planned route, there’s a short detour that weaves through a relatively isolated part of town. McCree’s positioned at one of the intersections along said street, a long, narrow strip of road lined with blocky gray buildings, devoid of activity--the perfect stage for a criminal operation.

He gets a few minutes to himself to enjoy his cigarillo undisturbed, leaned against the wall of a deserted alley, hat tugged low over his eyes. Then, at 7:13, the three black, official-looking cars carrying the ambassadors and their security service appear in his sight.

Hanzo’s voice buzzes through the communicator, cool and clipped. _“One shooter on the roof, west side. I am engaging.”_

 _“I’ve spotted another one. I’m closing in now.”_ Lena’s voice this time, slightly breathless.

 _“That means the rest of them must be close,”_ Morrison says. _“Keep your eyes peeled.”_

McCree presses close to the shadows, peering around the corner to watch the group of escort vehicles drive by, unnoticed. Just as the entourage stops at a pair of red traffic lights, a large, nondescript black car with tinted windows appears five blocks down and begins to steadily close the distance. It’s soon joined by a second identical car doing the same. Both cars, tellingly, lack identification plates.

“Bingo,” he mutters, and takes aim.

The two cars accelerate as they pass him, only to swerve and skid to an abrupt halt when their back tires suddenly blow out in a succession of pops. The smell of burning rubber fills the air. Immediately, security personnel file out from two of the ambassadors’ vehicles with their guns drawn and pointed at the two immobilized cars.

McCree speaks into his communicator. “Two enemy vehicles at the intersection on my block, both stopped. Security’s engaged. I'm counting four friendlies, no number yet for the other side.”

Masked Talon agents spill out of the vehicles. He fires at the first to emerge from the car closest to him, catching them with a clean shot in the head. A second agent meets the same fate. The light turns green but the ambassadors’ car doesn’t move. Belatedly, McCree sees that one of the tires has just been shot out. At that moment, a third Talon vehicle swings around the bend at the opposite end of the street and speeds toward them.

He swears lowly as he reloads. “Make that three enemy vehicles, and the target’s immobilized.”

Morrison’s growl rings through his earpiece. _“I’ve got the third car.”_

Right on cue, the car is blown sideways by the impact of three powerful, simultaneous blasts that knock it off the main street into a connecting alley. A blue and red blur dashes across the street after it.

 _“The shooter has been neutralized.”_ Hanzo again. He sounds barely winded.

At the intersection, the four remaining Talon agents have spilled onto the street and are locked in a firefight with the security personnel, both sides crouching behind the cover of their respective vehicles. Without warning, two of the enemy agents tip forward, matching arrows embedded in their necks. Hanzo must be hidden out of sight somewhere; there's no sign of him atop the nearby buildings.

McCree takes advantage of the distraction to sidle out of the alleyway, ducking behind a concrete post only to come face-to-face with an elderly woman peeking out curiously at the street from the building behind him. He tips his hat at her with a genial “Ma’am”, then hastens toward Morrison’s location before anyone else notices his presence.

The soldier’s at the far end of the alley occupied with two Talon agents. The black car rests on its side in a smoking heap between them and two more enemies, one lining up a shot and one sprawled on the ground, out cold.

Readying his Peacekeeper, McCree calls from the mouth of the alleyway, “Last chance to stand down, pardner.”

The closest gunman swings around to face him with a startled curse, weapon raised.

“Yeah, nope,” McCree says to the barrel leveled at his head, and swiftly takes out the enemy with a bullet to the forehead. Their rifle goes off, the shot going wide. As the shooter collapses backward, he sees Morrison knock out one of his opponents with the butt of his pulse rifle before turning his attention to the remaining one.

Shots ring out above him. McCree looks up, catching sight of two forms, one orange and one black, racing furiously across the concrete rooftops several yards down. Before long, the latter falls, but not before chucking something over the edge of the building. It’s an object a bit smaller than the size of a clenched fist: a grenade. It arches high, briefly catching the light, then plummets in a dead trajectory toward the ambassadors’ vehicle.

In a split second, a figure materializes in a flicker of blue beside the grenade, snatches it out of the air, and hurls it toward an empty roof. Moments later, the ear-splitting _boom_ of an explosion sounds just out of sight. Then, ringing silence.

Lena blinks away before she hits the ground, rematerializing on her feet a short distance away from him.

“Second shooter taken care of,” she announces, the statement echoed in McCree’s earpiece.

“Nice toss,” he tells her. “Ever thoughta being a pitcher?”

She grins brightly. “Aw, thanks, luv! Can't say I have.”

 _“Roofs are clear,”_ Hanzo informs them. _“All enemy agents at the intersection have been neutralized. The targets appear unharmed.”_

Morrison grabs the last shooter by the head in one large gloved hand and bashes their face against the brick wall with a sickening _crack._ The body crumples to the ground. He grabs the fallen agent’s earpiece, holding it up to his ear for a moment, then crushes it in his fist and stalks forward.

“They’re retreating. Let’s draw back and regroup.” A pause, then: “Good work.”

“Drinks on the boss,” McCree adds.

“I don't agree to that,” Morrison says flatly.

McCree shakes his head in mock-disappointment and takes another puff of his cigarillo. “Stingy.”

It’s over in less than ten minutes. They beat a hasty exit amidst the distant wail of sirens.

 

 

 

The MV-261 Orca--or, rather, Athena--picks them up an hour later at a contact point thirty miles outside the metropolitan center. Then, it's three more long hours before they’re back at Watchpoint: Gibraltar.

After they touch down, everyone splits up to go change and freshen up before the routine mission debriefing. Although they’re a lot better off now than they were a couple months ago, the newly-reformed Overwatch is still rather meager in size. On the upside, the relatively small number of agents means everyone gets their own private sleeping quarters in the reoccupied base, complete with tiny but still perfectly functional in-suite bathrooms.

McCree makes a brief stop at his room to shuck his armor and then he’s off again, whistling as he strolls down the hall. He comes to a halt in front of a door several rooms down and smiles to himself when it slides open upon request. The sparse, undecorated room is in a far neater state than his own. He crosses it in a few long strides, passing the plain bed, bare save for some discarded garments. As expected, he can hear the sound of the running shower through the walls.

Hanzo doesn’t even spare him a glance when he steps into the bathroom.

“The least you could do is knock, Jesse,” the archer says, his back to him while he rinses soap suds from his hair. McCree takes a moment to admire the view of smooth skin and toned musculature, woefully obscured by the steam fogging up the glass walls.

“Ain’t like ya don’t know I’m here.”

“It is only common courtesy.”

“If it’s _courtesy_ ya want, I’ll see what I can do.”

Hanzo finally turns to look at him, eyeing him with an unimpressed look. McCree spreads his arms, unabashedly naked.

“Aw, honey. You’re gonna give me self-esteem issues at this rate.”

“You could benefit from some humility,” Hanzo scoffs, but McCree doesn’t miss the way the other man’s gaze travels over him from head to toe. A wink and a waggish smirk later, McCree’s sliding back the glass panel and slipping into the shower behind him. As usual, the water’s--

“--fuckin’ _hot,”_ he curses as the spray all but scalds him.

“If it is not to your liking, you may leave.”

He flashes a grin in response to Hanzo's icy remark. “Naw, I’m good right here. No complaints from me.”

He reaches over and turns the temperature knob back to a more reasonable angle. Hanzo tosses a disgruntled glare over one broad, water-slicked shoulder.

“Too cold?” McCree asks, crowding in closer. “Don’t worry, I’ll make up the difference.”

Hanzo huffs but doesn’t protest when he presses them together, chest to back. They stay like that for a little while beneath the spray. The hot water feels _good,_ washing away the grime from the day and the tension from McCree’s muscles. The warm, solid body resting against his doesn’t hurt, either.

When Hanzo starts to shift, restless, McCree curls his left arm around his torso and reaches around and down with his flesh one, hooking his chin over his shoulder as he takes him in hand. Hanzo makes a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat.

McCree nuzzles the spot behind his ear. “Yeah?”

Hanzo says nothing, but he does lean into his touch. McCree takes it as a positive sign.

He strokes him to hardness gently, then with firmer, surer strokes eased by the water. Hanzo twitches when he thumbs over his cockhead so McCree does it again, rubbing in a circular motion over the tip. He jerks him with slow, deliberate tugs, not changing the pace even when Hanzo’s hips begin to stutter. The other man’s tense, curled over slightly, twitching every so often when McCree twists his hand just so. One hand comes up to grip McCree’s metal forearm, the other bracing against the linoleum wall as he rocks impatiently into his fist, chasing the friction.

McCree noses aside the wet strands of Hanzo's hair--he catches a whiff of his shampoo, something citrusy and vaguely floral--so he can mouth at the creamy, exposed column of his neck. The skin under his tongue tastes clean and almost sweet, like vanilla. He can’t help scraping his teeth over the soft flesh, bites down ever so carefully. Immediately, Hanzo releases a shaky exhale and relaxes against him, head tipping back against his chest, eyes shutting in bliss. McCree swallows and speeds up the motions of his hand.

The breaths by his ear grow ragged. Red blooms high in Hanzo's cheeks. And then the man’s coming with a quiet, bitten-off noise and a full-body shudder. McCree works him through it, pressing soothing kisses to his neck and shoulders as the shower spray promptly washes away the evidence. Afterward, he gives him a moment to catch his breath.

“How’s that for courtesy?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Hanzo responds by spinning around and backing him into the shower wall. The glass is cool against his heated skin; he shivers lightly.

“Too cold?” Hanzo mimics, a smirk playing at his lips.

McCree mirrors his smile. “I've got a hunch you're 'bout to warm me up, darlin’.”

Hanzo blinks, languid and dangerous. McCree tenses, expecting reciprocation. Instead he watches, eyes blown and stunned, as the other man drops liquidly to his knees.

McCree feels a little bit like the breath’s been punched out of him. Rivulets of water sluice through Hanzo’s loose, inky hair, down the sharp cut of his pale cheekbones, flushed from the heat and _other_ things, and over broad shoulders, collecting briefly in the dip between his collarbones before sliding lower. He glances up at him, tiny droplets of water clinging to his dark eyelashes, and wraps his fingers around McCree's half-hard cock.

It's possibly the hottest thing McCree's ever seen in his thirty-eight years of living, topped only by maybe the time two weeks ago when Hanzo rode him while wearing nothing but McCree’s red flannel shirt--

His train of thought derails completely at the first feeling of Hanzo taking him into his mouth. Just the tip at first, with light suction and a swirl of his tongue around the sensitive head. Then, he grabs onto McCree’s thighs for support and swallows him down, down, _down--oh sweet blazes, is that the back of his throat--_ before pulling back again to tease the tip.

McCree’s left gasping for air, frustrated and so incredibly turned on his head’s buzzing with it. It shouldn’t be possible with his lips stretched wide around a cock, but Hanzo’s expression seems nearly _smug._ His dark eyes lock onto McCree’s while he bobs along his length, cheeks hollowing when he sucks at the flesh. He does something wicked with his tongue and McCree grits out a groan, the back of his head colliding with the glass as he fights the urge to shove into the wet heat of Hanzo's mouth, because that would be rude. His fingers clench tight and tug where they’ve buried themselves in long, silky hair. It has to be painful but Hanzo doesn’t seem to mind, just lets out a satisfied hum that vibrates deliciously around his dick, eyes slipping shut.

Without thinking, McCree reaches a hand down and traces along the side of Hanzo's face and jaw. The man makes another low, contented noise at the touch. It’s a bit embarrassing how quickly McCree comes after that, spilling into that hot, eager mouth after a slurred warning of the man's name. Hanzo swallows it all, every last drop, then stands in a smooth movement, pink tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip. McCree ducks in to steal a kiss, open-mouthed and deep, and-- _fuck,_ he can still taste himself on the other man's tongue, which probably shouldn't be as hot as it is. When they break apart, Hanzo’s lips are swollen-red and wet. McCree stares.

“Well?” Hanzo prompts after a few seconds. His voice is hoarse, his cheeks still rosy. McCree’s pretty sure he can’t get it up again so soon but that doesn't stop his dick from making a valiant attempt.

“Well what?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Hurry up and finish showering. We have somewhere we need to be soon. Or have you forgotten?”

McCree did indeed forget just now. Though, really, he has a good excuse, what with having just been on the receiving end of a truly mind-melting blowjob and all. With some reluctance, he hastily soaps up and scrubs himself down while the other man does the same.

They end up being a teeny bit late to the debriefing but it’s completely worth it, he decides.

 

 

 

Dinner's always a lively affair. The team generally takes turns cooking--Watchpoint: Gibraltar's not an easy address to get takeout delivered to, after all. Toward dinnertime, without fail, agents wander into the mess hall alone or in groups, drawn by the aroma of food drifting out of the kitchen.

Like always, the TV panel mounted on the wall is set on a global news channel. Currently, it’s broadcasting the story of a thwarted attack on two omnic ambassadors in LA earlier that day. McCree spares the screen a distracted glance while he carries out two large, piping-hot pans of _enchiladas rojas_ from the kitchen.

“The incident has been identified as an attack by members of international terrorist organization Talon,” the reporter on-screen recounts. “The attempted assault ended in a shootout between the bodyguards and the Talon operatives. It is speculated that there was an additional, unidentified third party involved in the incident who aided in combating the attackers but left the scene before police arrived. The mysterious individual or individuals have yet to be identified as there are minimal eyewitnesses. The two ambassadors are unhurt and their security personnel suffered only minor injuries in the altercation. The surviving assailants have been taken into custody. More tonight at eleven.”

“I take it the mission went well?” Winston asks, pushing up his glasses.

Lena wobbles over with a tall stack of plates topped with a pile of cutlery precariously balanced in her arms. “Yep. Went off without a hitch,” she says cheerily. “It's a good thing Athena caught wind of it when she did, though. Could've been a real disaster otherwise.” Her expression grows somber and distant for a moment before it brightens again. “Good work, Athena!”

“Thank you,” the AI’s disembodied voice answers her. “Just doing my job.”

“Anyway”--Lena deposits her cargo on the nearest table and takes a deep sniff--“mm, this smells absolutely heavenly, Jesse.”

“Yes, I agree,” Mei chimes in happily, setting down her tablet. “It looks delicious too.”

“Not that I don't appreciate the kind words, but hold your compliments ‘til after ya get a taste,” McCree replies, shooting them a wink. “Now could I get a hand serving this?”

“Sure thing,” Mei readily agrees, already reaching for a plate.

“Oh, and Lena--do me a favor ‘n’ grab the rice from the stove for me? And maybe a ladle, too. Much obliged.”

“I’m on it!” Lena salutes him and bounces back toward the kitchen.

He smiles broadly when Hanzo appears at the doorway. “Howdy there! You’re just in time,” he greets him, tugging off the oven mitt from his right hand.

“Hope y’like enchiladas,” he adds when Hanzo glances curiously into the pans. “Thought I’d treat y’all to some good ol’ homestyle Mexican fare.”

Hanzo doesn't _quite_ smile, merely gives him a knowing look as he takes the seat next to his. McCree chalks it up as a win anyway.

Eventually, the portions get properly distributed and, after voicing whatever compliments they have, everyone settles into a seat at one of the tables arranged around the room. The hum of chatter and clinking cutlery fills the mess hall.

“In other news,” the TV reports, “police are investigating a rash of break-ins at several biomedical and pharmaceutical research labs that has broken out across western Europe in the past three weeks. Authorities report that both the culprit and motive behind these raids, which hit facilities in Switzerland and Germany and resulted mostly in minor theft and property damage, remain unclear. Let’s hope this epidemic doesn’t spread.”

The two news anchors chuckle to each other.

“Must they always make some attempt at a jest about their topic?” Hanzo grumbles.

“'S their way of trying to keep things interesting, I s’pose.”

“If I were looking for entertainment I would choose a different channel.”

Amused, McCree leans over and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his frown.

“Sappy old men alert,” Hana calls from the other end of the table where she's sitting with Lúcio and Reinhardt. “I repeat, sappy old men. This has been a PSA--”

McCree chucks a balled-up napkin in her direction. She ducks to avoid it.

“Hey now, missy, did you forget who cooked your meal?”

Hana sticks her tongue out at him.

Across the table, Lena giggles. “Don't mind her, Jesse. I think it's sweet.” She glances between him and Hanzo with a smile. The archer looks down at his enchilada, frame stiff. Sensing his discomfort, McCree switches the topic.

“Talon’s been getting awfully ballsy lately, ain't they?” he muses aloud. “I mean, attacking omnic diplomats in broad daylight in a big city? What's next, stealing the Declaration of Independence?”

“Why would they want to do that?” Mei asks, nose scrunching.

McCree shakes his head. “They must be growing stronger to be able to spare so many grunts on a mission like this one.”

Lena nods. “There were, what, a dozen of them today? And that's just the ones we saw.” She pops a forkful of food into her mouth.

“For now, all we can do is try to keep an eye on them as best as we can,” Winston says. “Athena’s doing her best to help us gather intelligence on their activity.”

“It'll be alright,” Lena pipes up again. “We’ll just have to do our best to stop them.”

“That’s the plan,” McCree agrees. He glances to his side. Hanzo is silently chewing his food, expression thoughtful.

“By the way,” Lena asks, looking around the hall, “where’s Jack?”

“I saw him conversing with Ana and Angela on my way here,” Winston says. “They’ll probably come by later.”

“Wonder what they’re chatting ‘bout that’s worth missing out on the best home-cooked enchiladas they ever did have.”

“Hubris,” Hanzo warns.

“Y’can’t deny they're damn good,” McCree points out. If there’s one thing he’s certain of in the world, it’s that he can make some mean _enchiladas con chile rojo._

Hanzo is stubbornly silent for a moment. Then he says, grudgingly, “The taste _is_ rather commendable.”

McCree lets out a triumphant whoop and swoops in to kiss him again, far less chastely this time. Hanzo bristles and hurriedly shoves him away, but not before Hana starts her hollering all over again. McCree gets back at her by assigning her to dish duty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! my twitter's [here](https://twitter.com/feiyunn) if you'd like to chat :>


	2. ELYSIUM

 

“Objective cleared. Good job, agents.”

At the sound of Athena’s voice, McCree lowers his six-shooter and relaxes his stance. The five other agents in the room mirror his action. The lights lining the room brighten as they all make their way to the front of the room in a babble of chatter and tired sighs.

The regular morning training drills are grueling; it’s barely half past nine and they’ve already gone through three rounds of intense combat simulations. Even so, McCree understands the need for them. They have to be in tiptop shape now more than ever, especially with the new recruits. The team compositions rotate regularly so that they all have practice working with one another, and also to encourage teamwork. Though, speaking of...

He glances behind him at the sound of raised voices to see Satya and Lúcio in what appears to be a heated argument while Hana and Lena trail behind uncertainly.

“I would appreciate it if you were more careful around my teleporters,” Satya snaps. “And we could have scored at least 12 points higher in efficiency had you not so irrationally _refused_ to use them.”

Lúcio scowls. “I don’t need your teleporters. My legs work just fine. And maybe I wouldn’t be bumping into them if you placed them better.”

McCree rubs his jaw. “Those two’re at it again, huh?” he says to Zarya, who’s walking beside him and mopping her face with a sweat towel. “Really need to work on that.”

“I do not understand their bickering,” Zarya replies.

The practice room door slides open and they step out into the hallway. The argument abruptly breaks off as the two agents stalk off in opposite directions.

“It's, uh. It's complicated. Winston told me. Got some bad blood between ‘em, apparently.”

“It is about the Vishkar Group, _da?”_

“Yeah. Something about Vishkar making developments in Rio ‘n’ Lúcio being a freedom fighter opposing that. Also he may have, uh, lifted some of Vishkar’s tech at one point.”

“Freedom fighter? I like the sound of that. It reminds me of the Defense Forces.”

“‘Bout that--how’re things going back home?”

Zarya sobers. “As good as it can be with the threat of omnic invasion. Volskaya is continuing her production of the Svyatogor mechs to defend us against the filthy robots,” she sneers

Boy, is he glad Zenyatta's not within earshot.

“Y’know, some of Overwatch's members are omnic. Y’can’t still believe they’re all awful, not after working alongside ‘em.”

Zarya’s expression darkens, her mouth flattening in a grim line

“That was not my choice. How can I trust the omnics after the things I have seen them do? The things they have done to my people?”

“I get that. ‘S a real tragedy, ain't no doubt.” McCree shrugs. “But hey, humans do rotten shit to humans all the time.”

She glowers a moment longer then shakes her head resignedly. “You are not wrong there, cowboy.” She slings her towel to hook over the back of her neck. “Perhaps the world is changing as you say, but I do not yet believe it. Not while my country is still in danger.”

He nods. “I'll drink to that. Later, that is.”

Zarya chuckles, expression finally clearing. “Yes, later. It’s a promise.”

They bid each other goodbye and separate, the woman heading off in the direction of her quarters while McCree saunters off in the other direction, fingers itching for a cigarillo.

He makes a pit stop at the kitchen. The coffee machine’s cheerfully burbling away when his phone chirrups with a notification.

 

> 09:45 SAT, MAY 22  
>  **[REMINDER]**  
>  \--
> 
> To: ALL AGENTS
> 
> Weekly Status Meeting in 15 min  
>  10:00, RM-02
> 
> \--  
>  **> DISMISS** | SNOOZE

 

“Shit.” He exhales heavily and drums his metal fingers on the counter. “Wonder if I can just call in,” he mutters.

“Unfortunately, Agent McCree, all agents who are currently within the base and able to do so are required to attend the weekly status meeting in person.”

He sighs again and tips his face toward the ceiling. “Thanks, Athena. You’re a pal.”

“My pleasure,” the AI answers him serenely.

He tosses one last forlorn look at the coffee before abandoning it.

 

 

 

A hasty shower and change of clothes later, he stumbles into meeting room 02 only four minutes late. Ana’s standing at the front of the room with a datapad. She pauses when he enters, raising her eyebrow.

“Nice of you to join us, Jesse.”

“Always aim to please, ma’am,” he answers easily. He pulls out the nearest vacant chair and plunks down onto it, swinging his feet up to rest on the table. He returns Mei’s little wave from beside him as he does.

Ana resumes. “Where were we? Oh yes. As you know, we're continuing our efforts to monitor Talon activity...”

McCree looks around at the dozen or so agents spread out between the various tables. Several agents, including Morrison, are absent, but he does spot Hanzo sitting several seats away between Lena and Satya. To his disappointment, the other man doesn't look in his direction, not even a peek, just stares ahead toward the front all serious-like.

The meeting drags on through the usual topics: the week’s missions, team rosters, Talon activity, more mission updates, more Talon, the planned bimonthly supply trip, probably more Talon, and so on. He’s paying attention.

Forty minutes later, after an announcement about remembering to wear sunscreen, they finally wrap up and everyone stands, chatting amongst each other as they file out of the meeting room.

Hanzo stops next to him on his way out.

“Hey pardner,” McCree greets him with a lazy smile, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. “Miss me?”

“We saw each other yesterday.”

“Yeah, _hours_ ago.”

Hanzo shakes his head then looks him over briefly, probably taking in his barely-dry hair and ratty t-shirt. He looks like he’s about to say something else when his gaze flickers to something over McCree’s shoulder. He glances back at him and says, “I will see you later,” then leaves without waiting for a response.

McCree turns, straightening at the sight of Ana approaching him.

“Howdy.”

“Hello. Shall we?” She gestures toward the door.

McCree nods and she falls into step beside him as they exit the room and head off down the hallway.

“Sorry,” he blurts, running a hand through his hair. “‘Bout being late ‘n’ all. I jus’…”

She meets his eyes. “I know. I’ll let it slide this time.” She’s wearing a slight smile, which is a good sign.

He pauses at the spot where the hallway splits off. “I was gonna--” He jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchen. “Coffee.”

“I’ll join you.”

They make off toward the kitchen. Ana sets a leisurely but measured pace, her hooded cloak blowing out behind her with her steps.

“How are you doing?” she asks lightly.

He snorts. “I’m fine. Should be asking _you_ that. I ain’t the one who came back from the dead.”

“I am well,” she responds.

“Y’sure do seem spry as ever.”

“I’m not _that_ old yet,” she says with a dry chuckle. Indeed, the woman is as commanding as ever, posture square and demeanor confident. But there’s an undeniable air of weariness to her, a weight on her shoulders and a tired tightness to her eyes. McCree wonders if he looks the same.

The kitchen’s empty when they get there. Someone took the previous pot so McCree sets about brewing a fresh one, spooning grounds into the machine while Ana leans against the counter beside him, tapping away at her datapad.

He presses his thumb to the start button and turns so his back’s to the counter, mirroring her pose. She lets out a huff at something on her screen then sets her tablet aside altogether.

“Back to the grind, huh?” he says.

“Indeed. I must admit, I am still not quite used to being back.”

He exhales heavily. “I know what you mean. It's still kinda surreal. Even after months.”

The routine. Regular missions. Even the base itself. In the first few weeks back at the watchpoint, it wasn’t uncommon for him to awaken in the middle of the night, long before he had to be up, disoriented and scrabbling for his Peacekeeper before he remembered that he wasn’t in continental America anymore but, rather, halfway across the world in a massive rock at the edge of the sea.

The coffee machine chimes. McCree pours out two generous cups of joe, handing the first to Ana.

She takes a sip. “Hm. We need to get some better beans in this base.”

He blows into his mug then tosses back a large gulp, heedless of the way the hot coffee nearly scalds his tongue.

“So,” Ana says. “The archer, hm?”

McCree coughs. “What about ‘im?”

She gives him a shrewd smile. “Coyness doesn’t become you, Jesse.”

He glances away, rubbing at his neck, willing the hot flush he can feel creeping up under his collar to retreat.

“We’re taking it as it goes. Keeping it easy.”

“Oh? How blasé of you.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “Naw, it--it ain’t like that. Genji would prob’ly castrate me, for one.”

Ana hums into her cup. When she looks back to him, her eye is twinkling above the swoop of her tattoo. “So, when should I expect the wedding?”

McCree splutters. “Ana!”

“What?” she laughs, the sound rich and clear, like bells. “I’m only teasing. Anyway. I’m just glad you are happy.”

McCree feels a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s been awhile since he’s seen her as relaxed as this, expression warm and content, lips curved in amusement.

“...Yeah.”

 

 

 

There’s a quiet nook outside where McCree likes to take his smoke breaks. It’s tucked between the roof of one of the labs and a watch room, boasting ample sunshine and a gorgeous view of the strait. Occasionally, in the cover of early morning or late night, he can spot the Orca or the smaller Aurora flying into or out of the base.

Sometimes he indulges himself, closes his eyes and tips back his head to let the sun warm his face. And, if he ignores the salty ocean wind and the shrill cries of the gulls hard enough, he can almost catch the tail end of something there, in the orange space behind his eyelids, surrounded by the cloud of his cigar smoke. Something familiar.

The weather today’s balmy as usual. A slight westerly breeze ruffles his hair as he steps out onto the bright gangway. Leaning his elbows on the railing, he pulls a cigarillo from his pocket and sets it between his lips, then reaches back into his pocket for a lighter to light it. Once done, he puffs on the cigarillo contentedly, gazing out at the glistening sea, the shapes of boats and ships speckling the water, the hazy forms of land in the far distance.

He wonders, absently, if Hanzo's around. Is he in the base? Or maybe out on a mission? The other man didn't mention anything of the sort. Then again, he isn't one to make a habit of informing others of his comings and goings.

McCree takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. His mind flashes back to the morning’s meeting: Hanzo stopping by him after it ended, expression neutral but eyes soft; his mouth opening, a minute intake of air, only to close again before he strode off. _I will see you later._

McCree’s interrupted from his musings by the familiar _ping_ of his phone.

 

> 14:30 SAT, MAY 22  
>  **[REQUEST INCOMING]**  
>  \--
> 
> To: MCCREE, ANA, HANZO, MERCY, TRACER, WINSTON
> 
> Mission summons - Type: Class 2 Recon  
>  Briefing TODAY at 15:30, RM-05
> 
> \--  
>  **> ACCEPT ** | DECLINE

 

He pauses for the briefest of moments, thumb hovering over the button, before hitting ACCEPT. He takes one last puff of smoke, savoring the spicy bite of it in the back of his throat while the sun beats down on his face. Then, he stubs the cigarillo out against the railing, plops his hat onto his head, and ducks back inside.

 

 

 

“Thanks everyone for joining,” Winston says. “I’ll try to keep this succinct. This is the location of this next mission.”

He presses a key and a holographic map of a city blinks into view above the conference table.

“Numbani?” Lena guesses.

“Correct. Our sources have been reporting an unusual increase in drug activity in the area.”

McCree crosses his arms. “Ain’t that what police’re for?”

“Well, yes. Normally. But, this time we think Talon has some direct connection. Trafficking, to be precise. Plus, I doubt local law enforcement is particularly interested in stepping in. Not in this case,” Winston adds cryptically.

“What's Talon doing getting involved in drug trafficking? Don't seem like their kinda gig.”

“We’re curious too,” Ana says from across the table, “which is why we're dispatching agents to investigate.”

Angela chimes in. “Specifically, we want to know more about the particular drug they've been transporting.”

She taps something on her datapad and another image appears on the holo-display: several pinkish, paper-thin squares. Judging by the graphic scale, each is no larger than his pinky nail.

“It’s the latest hip, experimental club drug,” she explains. “Street name ‘Fantasy’.”

“Creative,” McCree remarks.

“It’s brand new. Popped up maybe a month ago, two at most. Unregulated, of course, and not in the least approved by any respectable authority. It’s like people will put anything in their bodies these days”--she shoots him a quelling glare before he has the chance to open his mouth--“not a _word,_ Jesse.”

McCree blinks at her in a bewildered, ‘ _who, me?’_ sort of way: wide-eyed, eyebrows up, the very picture of innocence. She doesn’t bite. Lena hides a smile behind her hand.

Angela continues, “From our initial research, we’ve discerned that, aside from the common effect of elevating serotonin levels in the brain, it appears to have mild hallucinogenic properties. It typically comes in small squares which dissolve on the tongue.”

“Sounds pretty garden variety to me so far,” McCree says.

Lena nods in agreement. “There are tons of club drugs out there. What's so special about this one?”

“Honestly, we’re not sure, but the particular Talon interest raises some serious red flags.”

“Y’think this ‘Fantasy’ ain’t jus’ another party drug.”

“Correct. We don’t know much at this point. What we’ve gathered so far is, one, it’s appeared a only few places so far, Numbani being one of them. And, two, it seems rather… exclusive if the types of clientele it attracts is any indication. The point is, I’d like to acquire some. For research, of course.”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re sending you two into the field for preliminary recon,” Ana says, looking between him and Hanzo.

“Understood,” Hanzo acknowledges. It’s the first thing he’s said since the meeting began.

“Wait, wait,” McCree interjects, “lemme get this straight. Y’want us to get in there an’, what, hope we stumble on some of Talon’s secret stash? Buy a couple ounces for ya? We got a budget for this?”

Winston pushes up his glasses. “Your objective is to investigate the area and find out more information about this drug, and maybe Talon’s involvement if you’re able. Specifically”--the map zooms into a city block with a building highlighted--“there’s a high-end nightclub which we suspect might be a site for dealings of Fantasy. We’re hoping you can get some confirmation of that.”

“Whatever you do, keep a low profile,” Ana adds. “We don’t know how many people Talon’s got down there and it’s far too risky to engage them outright.”

“So we mosey on down there ‘n’ try to mingle with the night life. While keeping our heads down. Gotcha.”

Winston continues on about the logistics of the mission. McCree leans back in his seat, listening with half an ear.

Hanzo’s sitting next to him, posture alert but relaxed, his eyebrows lowered slightly in concentration. With his eyes, McCree follows the slope of the archer’s straight, regal nose down to the soft bow of his mouth, drawn down at the corners in a faint, perpetual pout, then lower along the line of his throat until it disappears into the folds of his robes. His black hair is neat as ever, his silk ribbon smooth and pristine, falling over his nape and down his back. It makes McCree want to tug at the ends, unravel that tidy ponytail, mess him up real nice. Hanzo, on his part, is either unaware of his scrutiny or damn good at ignoring it.

McCree fiddles with the brim of his hat. Maybe being assigned to go to a nightclub isn't so bad after all.

 

 

 

Numbani glows at night, McCree learns, even after the last golden rays of sunlight that cast the city in a bronze gleam during the day slip away into dusk.

It’s pushing midnight by the time he and Hanzo are discreetly dropped off several blocks from the nightclub they're supposed to investigate. From there, they walk the rest of the distance along the quiet streets, suffused with dim, warm light from the streetlamps and the ambient lighting given off by the buildings and billboards. This late, only some bars and other establishments are still open. Unlike the sweltering summer heat of the daytime, the night is cool and still.

Beside him, Hanzo’s sporting a nice, wine-red shirt made from some soft material, the fit of it accentuating broad shoulders and a trim waist, and slim-fit jeans that hug the--rather perfect--curve of his ass. The cut of his collar is just low enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of sharp collarbones. His tattoo’s hidden away under long sleeves and he's forgone his ribbon. Instead of his usual do, his hair’s in a low, loose ponytail, his bangs falling loosely around his face. And to top it off, he's wearing a _choker_ of all things--a thin strip of black wrapped around the bared column of his neck, held together by a simple silver clasp in the front. It’s all very flustering. McCree doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. He wonders, briefly, if Hanzo would let him take a picture if he asked.

Instead of acting on that impulse, he grumbles, “Can’t believe we gotta sneak into a club just ‘cause Angie’s keen on getting her hands on some drug.”

“We are not ‘sneaking in’,” Hanzo tells him. “We are getting in through perfectly legitimate means.”

“Sure feels like I’m sneaking _somewhere_ with all this black they made me wear.”

He’s been dressed in a thin black turtleneck shirt under a leather jacket (also black), and dark wash jeans, with motorcycle gloves on both hands to cover his prosthetics. His tousled locks are tied back in a small, messy ponytail, his beard freshly trimmed. To his discomfiture, he’s been forced to go hatless _and_ beltless so as not to draw attention, and, like Hanzo, he’s unarmed. At least they let him wear his usual leather boots, sans spurs.

Hanzo takes a second to give him a quick once-over, dark eyes dragging over him from head to toe. “It looks good,” he says simply.

Dang. If that don't fire up his engines. But, regrettably, they're on a mission and McCree does have _some_ semblance of work ethic.

“Still,” he says. “How they think the two of us would fit in at a club is beyond me.”

“It is no ordinary club.”

They turn the corner and the building comes into view. It’s a tall, narrow structure nestled between two similar buildings, decorated with the lofty pointed arches signature of the city’s architecture. Wide beams of light shine on the face of it, lending a sheen of gilt to its luxurious alabaster-and-chrome walls.

McCree lets out a low whistle. No ordinary club indeed. Someone could tell him it’s a high-class casino and he’d believe it.

“Figures that Talon would deal with swanky-ass clientele like this.”

“In addition to the nightclub, it also boasts a small events venue and a cocktail bar,” Hanzo explains.

“Y’sure know a lot 'bout this place. You been here before?”

The other man glances at him sidelong. “No. I simply paid attention during the briefing.”

Well, what’s there to say to that?

“Also,” Hanzo adds, “it only opened three years ago.”

“Practically brand-spankin’ new then. Wouldn't’ve guessed from lookinf.” It looks right in place amongst all the other glitzy structures in the city hub.

Soon enough, they arrive. A short, vaulted walkway leads up to the front entrance, where gold lights illuminate a pair of sturdy-looking doors, gleaming bronze but otherwise plain. The marquee above the entrance glows with a single golden word: ELYSIUM. Faint music spills from the depths of the club, increasing in volume as the two of them approach the open doors. There’s a short line of people gathered there waiting to be ushered in; McCree spots both humans and omnics alike.

They reach their bouncer, a tall omnic in a neat grey suit and gold tie. After taking the entry passes Winston had provided them, the bouncer gives the two of them a cursory scan, then waves them in through the door.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The interior of the club is sleek and modern, bathed in the stark neon glow from the strips of pink, blue, and gold lights running along the black walls and ceiling. The relatively short entrance hall opens to a spacious atrium with stairs winding up for several levels along each side, leading to what look like lounge areas. At the outer edge of the atrium floor, currently packed with bodies lit in technicolor by the strobe lights, is a wide seating area dotted with plush black-and-gold sofas and low, circular tables. Aside from those dancing, there are plenty of people standing around, many with drinks in their hands. McCree locates a bar along one wall, displaying bright shelves of alcohol and lined with padded stools.

The club’s lavish appearance is somewhat belied by the loud, pounding dance music coming from the dance floor. McCree’s glad they’re only sticking around for a few hours; his head already feels like it might split clean open from the noise. Hanzo might possibly be faring worse--his shoulders are tense and there’s a furrow in his brow already.

McCree touches his hand lightly to the other man’s back, bending down slightly to speak into his ear. “Relax, darlin’. Let’s take a look around, yeah?”

Hanzo visibly relaxes his frame. “Yes.” He sweeps his gaze over the space. “But, a drink first, perhaps.”

McCree grins. “An excellent suggestion.”

They weave their way through the crowd to the bar and order a drink each from the bartender there--a bourbon for him and a pale, purplish cocktail for Hanzo. McCree leans back, elbow propped on the bar counter as he savors his drink and surveys the space, wishing distractedly for a smoke. Hanzo was right--the two of them don’t look as out of place as McCree’d thought they’d be. It’s hard to see clearly, but the crowd appears to be a decent mix of younger and slightly older patrons, all looking pretty well-off and dressed on the classier side for being at a nightclub.

Fifteen minutes later and he's still spotted no signs of anything like the sort of drug exchange they're looking for.

“Anythin’?” he murmurs, leaning over to reach Hanzo’s ear.

The other man takes a sip of his cocktail while his eyes roam over their surroundings. “Mm. Not yet.”

“Still can’t believe you’re wearing a choker.” McCree gives in to the urge to reach over and run his thumb along it.

Hanzo shoots him a look. “Lena was insistent. She said it ‘completed the look’.”

“Remind me to thank her when we get back,” McCree says, putting down his emptied glass. He looks back toward the club. “S’pose we should get out there ‘n’ scope it out.”

They stand and head away from the bar. Before McCree can get very far, there’s a tug on his elbow. Hanzo pulls him aside into the shadows of a quiet corner, walking them backward until the other man has his back to the wall. Arms loop around McCree’s neck to draw him closer, the fabric of Hanzo’s sleeves coarse against his skin. And then there are soft, warm lips brushing his and hot puffs of the man’s breaths mingling with his own.

“Do not turn around,” Hanzo murmurs against his mouth, “but I believe there is an exchange of interest to us at your 3 o’clock.”

McCree glances out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, there are two people standing near the sidelines apart from the rest of the crowd in deep conversation. One of them, a light-haired man in a dark blazer with a pocket square, reaches into his jacket. There’s a glimmer of light reflecting off of plastic and a peek of something pink.

Instead of answering him, McCree presses forward and tilts his head to the left. An almost inaudible noise escapes the other man as their mouths slot more firmly together, but his eyes don't leave their target. Hanzo tastes like gin and lemon with a lingering sweetness. McCree licks into his mouth to get more of the flavor, then relents and draws back to nip and tug at Hanzo’s bottom lip with his teeth. Hanzo's grip on the back of his neck tightens warningly. McCree moves away from his mouth and kisses a hot line up to his right ear.

“That our guy?”

“It would appear so,” Hanzo murmurs just as lowly. He sighs, head tipping to the side as McCree mouths at a tender spot just below his ear. His hand comes up to bury itself in McCree’s hair.

McCree pulls back when he feels the tug at the back of his head. Hanzo meets his eyes and places a hand on his chest, pushing lightly until McCree backs up a couple steps.

“I will meet you back here,” Hanzo tells him, then brushes past him.

McCree watches as he sidles up to the man in the dark blazer, now alone and closer to the crowd, and subtly catches his attention. Noticing Hanzo, the man returns his greeting, a smile growing on his face while he looks the archer over, head cocked, practically leering. Hanzo doesn’t move when he steps closer. Their mouths move in speech, but McCree can’t make out what they’re saying. Blond blazer man says something else, one hand lifting to hover unnecessarily close to Hanzo’s waist.

Forcing himself to unclench his jaw, McCree turns and strides up to the bar again. He orders another drink--a shot of whisky, neat, which he promptly downs on the spot, relishing the fiery trail it leaves on its way down. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a dash of pink. He glances to his left just in time to see a woman a couple stools down--about his age, maybe younger, brunette, silver high-collared dress--slip something into her sequined clutch.

Smoothly, he sets his glass back on the counter then slides into the seat next to hers.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” he says pleasantly, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the din, “but I couldn't help noticing whatcha had in yor hand there.”

The woman glances askance at him. “Hm? What about it?”

He keeps his posture friendly and unthreatening, his expression politely curious.

“Y’wouldn’t happen to know where a fella could get some of that, wouldja?” For good measure, he puts on one of his signature grins: a disarming, lopsided one with a splash of rakish that's gotten him out of many a prickly situation.

It’s nearly indiscernible, but McCree notices how the woman relaxes ever so subtly, how her gaze morphs from guarded to appraising. She leans toward him conspiratorially, close enough for him to catch a whiff of her sugary, floral perfume. Her jeweled necklace glints in the light.

“There are some people in this club who could be able to help you with that. Just look for the pink handkerchief.”

“Right. Thank you kindly for the tip.”

She nods, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “I must warn you, though. It’s been getting more difficult to acquire it lately.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Something about a shortage of supply. I'm not sure.” She shrugs.

“I see. Well, thanks again for the info,” he says with a smile, not missing the way her eyes follow his movements with interest when he stands. He nearly reaches up to tip at his non-present hat before he catches himself. “You have a good evening.”

He slips into the crowd then wanders around for a little while. Finding nothing else of interest, he heads back toward where he last saw Hanzo, spotting him easily enough by the wall near the bar.

The other man looks up at his approach. When McCree informs him of what he learned, he nods.

“A pink handkerchief, tucked into one’s shirt pocket,” he says. “That man had as much. Our suspicions were correct. Andre told me--”

“Wait, wait-- _Andre?”_

“That is the name he gave.”

“So you're on a first name basis already?”

“He did not provide a last name, naturally.” Hanzo looks at him oddly. “Regardless, he said that anyone who has interest in his… product can find him here, though he warned it does not come cheap. He offered to sell me some, of course, but I declined.”

“Right,” McCree says brusquely. “Well. We should probl’y keep an eye on this Andre fella, see if he meets up with anyone. Maybe make 'nother quick round of the place since it's almost two. Then we can check in with the others. We’ve got enough to report back on, plus we got the confirmation we wanted.”

“I agree,” Hanzo responds, and adds, “I’m impressed to see you so focused on the mission.”

“What? I’m always focused on missions. Plenty focused. Focused is my middle name.”

“... Right.” Hanzo doesn't sound convinced. He narrows his eyes. “What has gotten into you?”

“Nuthin’,” McCree states emphatically. He busies himself with looking over the floor. No one seems to be paying them any mind, engrossed in their own conversations or the music.

“Oh, I see,” Hanzo says suddenly.

“What?”

“You are jealous. Of _Andre.”_

McCree bristles. “The hell? No I ain’t.”

When Hanzo just stares at him levelly, he continues, “Why would I be jealous? That’s stupid. Ain’t nothing to be jealous about. You’re free to talk to whoever ya damn well please. Plus, he's a target. You were _questioning_ him, an’--you’re not buying any of this are ya?”

Hanzo smirks, one eyebrow raised.

McCree lets out a frustrated huff. “Alright, fine. I mighta been a _tiny_ bit jealous--but only a bit! Creep was getting way handsier than he oughta been.”

"Is that so?" Hanzo’s lips are curled in a ghost of a smile, his eyes dark and hooded and locked onto McCree’s. He trails one hand down McCree’s stomach, the touch feather-light, then curls his index finger around one of his belt loops. McCree can hear the blood rushing in his ears, his gaze riveted on Hanzo’s mouth as he leans in. Then Hanzo freezes, gaze fixing on something behind him.

“What--”

“There. The dealer.”

McCree throws a glance over his shoulder. Across the room, the man with the pink handkerchief is making a beeline toward a door in the back corner. When McCree turns back, Hanzo’s already moving.

McCree swears under his breath and follows. He's really starting to dislike this Andre.

They slip out of the club through a different back door than the dealer took, emerging outside on the adjacent side of the building. Quietly, they edge up to the corner until their target comes into view. In the dim circle of light from the building, they make out the dealer standing with another figure--about six feet tall, McCree notes, dark clothes and boots, cropped brown hair. A black cloth facemask obscures the bottom half of their face. They appear to be alone.

“What the hell, man? This is it?” Andre demands loudly. “No way this is enough.”

“If the well’s dry, the well's dry,” his companion returns in a gruff voice, tone dismissive.

Andre steps forward. "No stock means no business."

"That's _your_ problem."

Andre doesn’t look too happy at that. The two exchange some more words, none that McCree can pick up. Eventually, the masked figure walks off toward an untagged motorcycle parked on the side of the street. They swing onto the seat then speed off in a snarl of engines while Andre stalks back inside the club.

McCree turns to Hanzo. “Dunno ‘bout you, but I think I’m ready to call it a night.”

Hanzo hums in agreement, already reaching into his pocket for the the tiny communicator stashed away there. He tucks it into his ear and turns it on, opening the communication line.

“This is Hanzo reporting. We are ready for extraction. Yes. Fifteen minutes. Understood.”

With a press of his finger, Hanzo turns the communicator off again, then looks back to him. McCree takes the opportunity to shuffle in closer.

“What say you ‘bout one more drink while we wait for our ride?”

Hanzo tilts his head as if considering. McCree’s gaze drops to the slender strip of black encircling his throat.

“Or,” Hanzo murmurs, “we could find something to occupy ourselves here.”

If that ain’t the best thing he’s heard all night, McCree thinks as he settles his hands around the other man’s waist and closes the gap between them.

 


	3. SAFEHOUSE

 

“‘Andre’, you said?”

“Yes,” Hanzo tells Winston’s image in the video connect window. “Blond hair, slicked back. Dark eyes. Height around 180 centimeters. He also had a tattoo on the left side of his neck. I was unable to see it clearly, but it appeared to be small and geometrical.”

Winston nods, looking off to one side as he types.

Hanzo continues, “He met with somebody--a supplier most likely. Looked male, short brown hair. Around the same height, a bit taller. He wore a black facemask and had a dark street motorcycle without an identification plate.”

“Hm. Alright, I’ll see what I can find. Regardless, it seems we’re on the right track.”

“From what we heard, it sounds like the supply’s running low or being throttled somehow,” McCree adds, coming up behind Hanzo’s chair to peer at the tablet.

Winston scratches his chin with one hand and reaches for something off-screen with the other. “Interesting. Ana and Lena reported the same thing at the place they were investigating. It is strange. If Talon really is involved, perhaps they are manipulating the pipe in some way.” He pulls back his arm with a spoon of what's definitely peanut butter and pops it into his mouth.

McCree shakes his head. “Don’t make no sense to me. Why would they cut off the supply to the dealers? Don't seem very profitable.”

“Perhaps they are rerouting it somewhere else,” Hanzo suggests.

“There are still too many unknowns here to postulate,” Winston says around his spoon. “We’ll just have to keep investigating. In any case, good work, you two. We’ll check in with you again in the morning. For now, get some rest.”

“Right back atcha, pal. It’s the same time over where you are. Can't run on peanut butter alone.”

Winston pops the spoon out of his mouth and chuckles. “Not for lack of trying.”

Soon after, they bid him goodnight and end the video call.

It’s nearly 3 AM. They're holed up in one of the safehouses in Numbani for the time being--a small, single-bedroom apartment five floors up in a nondescript but modern complex. It’s minimally furnished--spartan, really--but it’s got the essentials: a bed, of modest size, and a coffee machine. McCree briefly considers digging through the cupboards for some beans while Hanzo’s in the shower but abandons the idea, reaching instead into his jeans pocket for a cigarillo. He pulls one out and, sticking it unlit between his lips, pads over to the floor-length window lining one wall of the flat, pushing aside the curtains and unlocking the handle catch. With a grunt, he opens the sliding door, sticky and dusty from disuse, and leans out onto the faux balcony, bracing his arms against the railing. He’s greeted with a view of the darkened faces of the neighboring buildings and a moonless night sky, cloudless and glowing faint orange.

The air outside is still but mercifully cool. He’s shucked the jacket and gloves, down to just the black turtleneck undershirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He eagerly sucks in the first puff of spicy smoke after he lights up, feeling burn of it roll around the back of his throat, then holds the stick between metal fingers as he lets it escape from his mouth. There’s a light buzzing in his mind and a tightness from his neck to his fingers. He recognizes it now as the familiar tension of being on edge in an unfamiliar place. The smoke helps some, as does the sound of the running shower, surprisingly enough. It fills up the silence, gives him something to listen to other than his own thoughts.

When his cigarillo’s down to a stump, he squashes it out against the metal railing and wanders back inside, shutting and locking the window behind him. He ignores the low pull-out couch and plods over to the bed, tossing the cigarillo stump across the room, where it lands tidily in the trash can. His Peacekeeper rests in its holster on the nightstand; Hanzo’s bow and quiver are propped up against the wall beside it.

“Y’don’t mind if we share this thing, do ya?” he asks, gesturing to the bed as Hanzo exits the bathroom, woefully shed of his choker. The other man stares at him and McCree scratches his head, quickly adding, “Or, y’know, I can take the couch, ’s no big deal--”

“No,” Hanzo answers, “it--it is fine.”

McCree grins wide, tugging off his elastic hair tie and running his fingers through the freed hair. “Thanks, hun’.”

Hanzo shakes his head, muttering, “Not necessary.”

Whistling, McCree saunters past him to the bathroom, stripping out of the rest of his clothes as he goes. By the time he steps out again, in nothing but his boxers, Hanzo’s already under the blankets, sitting with his back against the headboard in a thin cotton t-shirt, hair falling loosely around his face while he thumbs at his phone. In his fatigued state of mind, McCree can’t quite place a finger on the flicker of emotion the sight evokes in him, but it’s warm and makes his chest feel stupidly light, like a balloon.

“Are you coming to bed or not?” Hanzo’s cool voice pulls him from his thoughts.

He chirps, “Sure am, sweet pea,” and hits the light switch. He spares his prosthetic arm a fleeting, considering glance before making a beeline to the bed and sliding into the space the other man left for him.

He feels more than sees Hanzo shift beside him, setting aside his phone and slipping under the sheets. The ensuing silence is thick, broken only by the sound of the occasional passing car. McCree stares up at the dark ceiling. The mattress is softer than he’s used to, the starched sheets scratchy against his back. He’s tired, but, try as he might, he can’t seem to will sleep to overtake him. When he closes his eyes, he sees the trails the pulsing neon lights of the club seared into his eyelids, and hears the pounding music echo in his ears and reverberate in the chamber of his chest.

“Is something the matter?”

He tilts his head to see Hanzo peering at him in the darkness. The man’s eyelids are drooping, his hair slightly rumpled from the pillow.

“Ah, ‘s nuthin’, sweetheart,” McCree replies, rolling onto his side to face him. “Go to sleep.”

Hanzo hums sleepily and shifts a little closer to him; the proximity makes McCree heart skip a beat. Then the other man moves closer still, meeting his eyes, and pushes the thin blanket off of them both.

“What’re you--mm.”

McCree’s silenced by the pressure of lips on his, supple and enticing--and all too fleeting as Hanzo pulls back mere seconds later. Before McCree can seek out his mouth for another kiss, Hanzo rolls them over so he’s on top, one thigh wedged between McCree’s legs. McCree grunts at the sudden pressure, hands reflexively grounding themselves on the other man’s waist as Hanzo gazes down at him, features shadowed, his eyes black pools in the darkness. His expression is difficult to make out.

McCree wets his lips, rasping out a quizzical, “Darlin’?”

“Nn. Be still,” Hanzo mumbles, voice barely above a whisper.

Propping himself up on one arm, he pushes down McCree’s boxers just enough to bare his cock to the cool air. McCree shivers at the sensation, watching spellbound while Hanzo licks a wet stripe up his palm then reaches down and wraps it around his dick. At the first teasing stroke on his sensitive flesh, McCree lets out a low groan, hips stuttering in what little give there is with Hanzo lying heavy atop him, then lifts up onto his elbows so he can see.

Hanzo continues to stroke him, harder now, with little twists of his hand, brows drawn in concentration. In this position, McCree’s at just the right angle to bury his face into the crook of Hanzo's neck, if he wanted. Hanzo’s hair falls around them, making McCree dizzy with the fragrance, and the man is toasty as a furnace. His archer’s callouses feel _divine;_ his fingers, dextrous and sure, work him into fullness in no time at all.

“Ah, _shit.”_ McCree jerks at the feeling of a thumb pressing beneath the head of his cock, breath catching in his throat. He bucks up into the grip with enough force to jostle the other man slightly. Hanzo shifts a bit and settles more comfortably atop him, bare thighs bracketing McCree’s hips, then resumes his efforts.

Hands fisting in the sheets, McCree stares down the length of their bodies to where Hanzo’s hand is jerking him off. The sight is almost _obscene:_ his boxers are barely shoved off, the flushed head of his dick juts out from the circle of Hanzo’s fingers as he works him, the muscles of his arm flexing with his motions. It’s hot as all hell, but--

“Darlin’--lemme--”

Awkwardly, McCree maneuvers his right arm in between them, pawing at the waistband of Hanzo’s underwear. The other man lets go of his length to lift his hips and yank the garment down, revealing his half-hard cock. McCree can’t resist grinding up then to feel the rub of skin on silky, feverish skin, and he’s rewarded with a muffled grunt from above him. He does it again to hear Hanzo’s breath hitch, then curls his flesh hand around Hanzo’s cock to return the favor. He gets in one, two strokes before Hanzo bats him away, ignoring his quiet whine of protest, then takes the both of them in hand. His grasp isn’t _quite_ wide enough to wrap around the both of them completely so McCree helps him by laying his flesh hand on top of Hanzo’s moving one, making up for the gaps with his own fingers.

Hanzo’s head drops onto his shoulder, breath heavy and humid against McCree’s skin. McCree turns slightly to bury his nose in Hanzo’s hair and press a kiss to his temple. His free arm wraps loosely around the other man’s back, metal fingers gripping him through his thin shirt just to feel him, the way his chest swells and shrinks with his breathing, the soft heat of his body.

Their hands become slippery with precome, easing the way of their motions while they make short, aborted thrusts against each other. Hanzo’s shirt is riding up as he grinds down and he’s making these tiny, growly noises under his breath and McCree craves to hear _more._

“Goddamn, sugar--so perfect--yeah, just like that,” he gasps out.

“Nngh,” Hanzo pants, voice thick with arousal. “Jesse.”

 _Fuck._ McCree bites his lip. He can feel the faint tremor of the archer's thighs where they're pressing into his. Already, they’re both beginning to lose rhythm, their movements growing sloppy, frantic. Sweat beads on his overheated skin as the friction from their hands and Hanzo’s cock against his own shoots hot, mounting frissons of pleasure up his spine. McCree’s entire focus narrows on the spot where their cocks are pressed together, squeezed tight in their hands and leaking.

One more buck upward and it all finally crests. His vision goes blurry and he comes with a shudder over their fingers and stomachs. With great effort, he manages to keep his eyes open to see Hanzo’s features twist helplessly in pleasure as he follows shortly after with a stifled groan, coating their torsos in spurts of white.

Hanzo collapses onto his chest, heedless of the stickiness between them. McCree drops back against the pillow as he catches his breath. His head is pleasantly fuzzy with the afterglow. Their legs are tangled, his arm still curled over Hanzo's waist. He can feel Hanzo's heartbeat alongside his own, gradually slowing down from their rapid pace.

All too soon, Hanzo's lifting off of him, grimacing at the mess. Their hands are filthy but, more importantly, they didn’t get any of it on the bed. Clumsily, Hanzo tugs his soiled t-shirt over his head, using it to wipe them off before tossing it onto the floor. When he settles back down, McCree leans in and drops a kiss on his warm cheek.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy it, darlin’, but what brought that on?”

Hanzo makes an incoherent noise, eyes slipping shut. He mumbles something McCree can’t make out, followed by, “... sleep,” then promptly rolls over onto his side, facing away.

McCree gets comfortable behind him, throws his metal arm around Hanzo’s torso and tugs him in. The other man is uncharacteristically pliant when McCree presses himself flush against his backside, probably because he’s pretty much deadweight at this point, having been tired enough before they started. His breathing's already evened out.

It’s warm. McCree’s limbs feel heavy as lead. He presses another chaste kiss to Hanzo’s nape, exhaustion finally settling in, and shuts his eyes.

 

 

 

Hanzo wakes before he does. McCree’s jostled out of sleep by his movements as the other man pulls himself out of his loose grasp.

“Time’s it?” McCree groans.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Fuck,” he says, and rolls over onto his face. Several moments later, he hears the sound of the curtains being thrown open, then of the water running in the bathroom. Loathe to wake, he allows himself a few minutes--or more than a few, who’s counting?--to lay where he is, drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

The water stops. There’s a moment of stillness before he feels the mattress dip next to him, followed by the pleasant sensation of fingers threading lightly through his hair. He stays absolutely still, savoring the feeling.

The fingers are gone as quickly as they came and the bed un-dips. “I know you are awake, Jesse,” comes Hanzo's voice. “You cannot lie there forever.”

Damn. Caught. With a groan, he sits up, blinking blearily. Sunlight’s streaming in through the curtains. Hanzo’s already across the room, fiddling with his tablet. McCree staggers to his feet, joints popping as he stretches. He feels as refreshed as he can be with five hours of sleep, which is to say pretty darn good for him.

A quick trip to the bathroom later, he makes himself comfortable in the tiny kitchen, nosing around the cupboards. Triumphantly, he pulls out a small, sealed packet of pre-ground beans. Lord knows how long it’s been sitting here, but coffee’s coffee and beggars can’t be choosers. He blows off the faint coating of dust off of the plastic packaging.

“Coffee?” he calls over his shoulder.

“No, thank you,” Hanzo answers from the living room.

“Tea, then?”

A short pause. “If there is any.”

“Just some of the cheap bagged stuff. Nothin’ fancy.”

“It will do.”

McCree gets the brewer going and sets the electric kettle to boil. A few short minutes later, he brings over two steaming cups to the couch where Hanzo's sitting and staring intently at his tablet in his lap.

“Whatcha looking at there?” McCree asks. He sets Hanzo’s mug with the tea bag down on the coffee table in front of him.

“Winston sent over some files this morning. He was able to find some information on the dealer we saw.”

“Already? That guy works too hard. Someone oughta tell 'im that just 'cause he ain't human don't mean he don't need sleep like the rest of us,” McCree says, leaning his hip against the back of the couch. “Alright, what’ve we got?”

“Andre Martins Ortiga, age 35,” Hanzo recites. “Moved to Numbani from Lisbon six years ago for unknown reasons. Clean record--aside from the drug dealing, I suppose. Works as a part-time bartender five nights a week for two different local bars.”

“Sounds pretty inconspicuous to me. Anything else?”

Hanzo quickly skims through the files a couple more times, absently blowing on his tea then sipping at it. “Nothing of note, no. And there is nothing on the other person. The supplier.”

“Maybe we can catch ‘em meeting again. That shady fella with the mask seemed like a promising lead.”

McCree takes a swallow of coffee then frowns.

“What is it?” Hanzo asks, glancing up at him.

“Can’t decide if this stuff’s better or worse than what we’ve got at the base,” he replies, squinting at his mug.

Hanzo rolls his eyes, opening his mouth. Whatever he was going to say is lost when an orange notification flashes on the tablet screen.

“It is Winston and the others,” he says, propping the tablet up on the coffee table and tapping it to begin the video connect. Winston’s image pops up in the video window.

“Good morning, Hanzo, McCree.”

“Mornin’, pal,” McCree says, tossing back another swig of coffee. “Heard you’re quite the workaholic.”

“What? Oh, the files. Those were mostly Athena. I recently made some tweaks to her system to improve the efficiency of her search and identification algorithms, especially when filtering through large databanks and multiple-source data dumps.” The scientist pauses. “You’re not listening to any of this, are you?”

“Nope,” McCree replies cheerfully. “Y’know it’s too stinkin' early for that kinda technical mumbo jumbo.”

“... Right,” Winston sighs.

Two more video windows appear. One shows Lena’s face, with Ana visible in the background. The two of them appear to be in an apartment similar to the one they’re currently in, judging by what little McCree can see. Drab walls, mostly. The other window is Angela.

“Hello,” the doctor greets them. She’s wearing her white lab coat, her hair pristine.

“Howdy,” Lena says, saluting her screen with a grin.

“Hey, that’s _my_ line.”

“Good morning, everyone,” Winston cuts in. “Shall we get started?” When everyone nods in agreement, he continues, “We’ve made some progress on the case. Thanks to the preliminary investigations, we now have confirmation that dealings of ‘Fantasy’ are present in this city as expected.”

“Angela, what do we know so far about the drug?” Ana asks.

“‘Fantasy’ is a psychoactive recreational drug that popped up in Numbani no earlier than two months ago,” Angela begins. “From what we’ve heard, ingesting it triggers a mild state of euphoria typically lasting up to three or four hours. These effects start rather quickly for a drug of its type--usually taking no more than five to ten minutes after ingestion. This euphoric state is commonly described as ‘dreamy’, hence the name. During this period, users report altered sensory perception, minor synaesthesia, and hallucinogenic effects, or ‘dream images’. There haven’t been any reports of significant side-effects.” She shrugs. “At least, none so far.”

“That’s all well ‘n’ good,” McCree says, “but far as I’m aware, we ain’t the international drug police. We got anything more on how this ties to Talon?”

Ana shakes her head. “No. But it is still early yet.”

“The reason we suspected Talon involvement in the first place is due to reports of possible Talon activity--agents, transports, etcetera--around rumored drug stashes in the handful of cities where Fantasy use is present,” Winston provides.

“Which brings us to our next courses of action,” Ana says. “Hanzo, McCree, you two will be in charge of acquiring a small amount of this drug so we can take a closer look at it in our labs. If possible, see if you can’t get some more info about that supplier you saw meeting with the dealer the other day. Best case scenario, they lead us to a location.”

“Worst case scenario, we get our brains blown out in some grubby back alley?” McCree jokes.

“That's always the worst case scenario,” she quips dryly. She continues, “Lena and I will investigate some leads on the warehouses nearby. Winston will continue to monitor the situation from base. Remember, take caution to not engage any Talon operatives if you see them. Not until we have a better sense of the scope of the operation.”

With promises to keep one another updated, they end the video call.

Hanzo turns to him. “It seems that we are making another visit to Elysium.”

McCree sets his mug down and drops onto the couch, tipping his head back against the backrest with a groan. “In all honesty, sweetheart, I woulda been perfectly happy to never step foot in that godforsaken place again.”

“It was not that bad.” The other man’s voice is tinged with amusement.

“Felt like my head was still pounding like an anvil hours after.” McCree squeezes his eyes shut at the memory. “‘Least they had a decent booze selection.”

“The dealer said he is usually at the club on weekends, so he should be there tonight as well. I will try to make contact with him again.”

“Mm,” McCree responds without opening his eyes. They lapse into silence. It's comfortable, though. “This’s kinda nice,” he murmurs after a while.

“Hm?”

“Being outta combat for once. None of those grueling drills, neither. A little more relaxing recon work instead.”

“Forced idleness is nothing to be pleased about.”

He finally cracks open his eyes. Hanzo’s occupied with the tablet, rested on his lap over his crossed legs. McCree nudges his leg with his knee. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. You gotta admit it’s good to have a bit of a break from the heat every now ‘n’ then.”

Hanzo grunts noncommittally. “I suppose so,” he acquiesces, “but that does not mean we can be careless. It would be dangerous if Talon were to discover we are poking around their business.”

“Ain’t nothin’ that worries me.” McCree hazards a lazy wink when the other man meets his eyes. “I’ve got you here with me, after all.”

Hanzo stands before McCree can wrap the arm he’s been sneaking over the back of the couch around him.

“Save your flattery for when it will actually be of effect. On a target, perhaps,” he remarks dryly. But, he doesn’t sound displeased, McCree notes.

McCree gets to his feet as well and trails after him as he heads into the kitchen. “Ain’t flattery if I’m stating the truth, sweet pea.”

While Hanzo deposits his cup in the sink, McCree comes up behind him, and braces his arms against the marble counter on either side of the other man’s waist. He presses his chest to Hanzo’s back, savoring the warmth that seeps through the thin layers of their shirts at the point of contact.

“Y’know, we still got time before we gotta be anywhere…” McCree murmurs into the other man’s ear.

Hanzo spins around in the cage of his arms and leans back against the sink. “So we do,” he muses, eyes hooding. “What did you have in mind?”

McCree smiles. “Well, I dunno ‘bout you, darlin’, but I haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday afternoon.”

As if on cue, his stomach growls.

Hanzo arches an eyebrow, lips curving up at the corners ever so slightly. “Is that so? We shall have to amend that.” He winds his tattooed arm around McCree’s neck and brings his mouth up to his ear, voice dropping to a purr. “It would be terribly cruel to leave you… _unsated.”_

McCree bursts out in chuckles even as a certain part of his anatomy stirs in interest at the sultriness of the man’s tone. “Darlin', that was downright awful.”

Hanzo draws back, relaxing. “I have heard far worse from you,” he responds archly.

“Ouch, honey.” McCree winces in mock-pain then steps back. “Seriously, though, let’s grab some grub, yeah? Y’must be starving too.”

“Not a bad idea,” Hanzo admits. “I am sure we can find someplace close by.”

McCree grins in delight and swoops in for a kiss--a soft, slow press of lips with the barest hint of tongue--before Hanzo moves away.

 

 

 

Getting their hands on the drug, it turns out, is the easy part. It’s simple enough for them to get themselves back into the nightclub, for Hanzo to slip into the crowd once again, weaving toward a familiar head of slicked-back blond hair and returning soon after with a small plastic bag stashed in his pocket.

The harder part is getting another lead on the supplier. They don’t catch Andre making contact with the supplier that day, nor the day after that. They hit the jackpot two days later while tailing the dealer after he leaves his evening shift at a bar. The man follows his usual route walking home, collar flipped up and hands stuffed into his pockets, until he veers down a side street toward a deserted plaza. McCree and Hanzo position themselves behind a nearby archway and watch as Andre is approached by another figure under a dim circle of lamplight.

Cropped brown hair, heavy set brow, black cloth facemask, combat boots. _Bingo._

When Hanzo glances at him, McCree nods toward a shadowed section of the road. A familiar untagged, black motorbike is parked there just outside the glow from a nearby streetlamp.

He mutters just loud enough for Hanzo to hear, “Think you can get close enough?”

The other man shoots him a look like he just asked which way the sun rises, then slips off soundlessly. Even McCree has difficulty tracking him as he darts rapidly over to the bike, sticking to the shadows and silent as a specter, to plant the tiny tracker they’d prepared beforehand on the underside of the bike’s body.

Like last time, the two men keep their voices low while they converse, too low for McCree to make out any words. Andre looks unhappy, his form tense. Facemask keeps his arms crossed, his expression--or what McCree can see of it--dispassionate. Eventually, he unfolds his arms to retrieve a parcel out of his pocket, Andre takes something out of his own, and the two make an exchange.

Hanzo reappears at McCree’s side, giving him a soundless nod. They both watch as the two figures part, Andre walking off in the direction he came from and Facemask toward his bike, staying hidden from sight until Facemask’s motorcycle is no more than a distant rumble. Only then does McCree activate the communicator in his ear.

“The cherry is on the sundae,” he declares.

 _“Why can’t you just say ‘the tracker has been planted’ like a normal person?”_ Lena’s response is immediate.

“Where’s the fun in that, Trace? You hate cherries or somethin’? How ‘bout, ‘the strawberry is on the cake’?”

_“That’s not any better!”_

A glance to the side shows that Hanzo’s face is turned away--suspiciously so, like he’s hiding a smile.

“Fine. The tracker’s on the bike. Happy?”

 _“Stay where you are,”_ Ana’s voice informs them. _“We’ll be at your location in five.”_

Sure enough, an unremarkable grey coupe pulls up to a stop across the street a few minutes later. Lena hops out of the passenger side and waves them over. Ana’s sitting in the driver’s seat, clad in her usual dark hood and cloak.

“McCree, you go with Ana in case we have to identify the person,” Lena tells him. “Hanzo, you and I will stay back.”

The archer nods once. “Understood.”

“Quick question,” McCree says, sliding into the shotgun seat. “How come you two get a car?”

Ana presses the ignition button and the vehicle restarts with a smooth hum. “Practicality, of course.”

He returns Lena’s wave through the back window as they pull away, then turns back around in the seat. “Why don't me ‘n’ Hanzo get one too, then?”

Ana looks away from the road to give him an indulgent look. “We’re not made of money.”

“Right. Forget I asked.” He rolls his eyes.“‘S that our guy?” He nods toward the GPS screen mounted to the dash, showing a steadily blinking red dot moving northward.

“Yes,” she says. “He hasn’t gone too far yet. We can catch up.”

_“Winston here. What’s your status?”_

“We’re following now,” McCree answers. “You watching the screen?”

_“Yes, I have it here. It seems like they are heading toward a more industrial part of town.”_

“A storehouse, y’think?”

_“Perhaps. Seems promising so far. Be careful.”_

“Will do. Ana’s a great driver.”

“I am an excellent driver,” she corrects him, checking the rearview mirror as they stop at an intersection. “No sign of any tails.”

He keeps an eye out anyway while they drive. Fortunately, it’s the time of night that’s late enough to be early so the roads are all but empty. Fifteen minutes later, the tracker dot stops moving.

“Looks like they’ve stopped,” McCree says. “Winston, you got an address?”

_“Pulling it up now... Aha. Looks like it is a storehouse of some sort. Can you two confirm?”_

“We’re on it.”

Ana parks them a few blocks out, far enough away that the car won’t raise suspicion. Quickly, they jump out and make their way toward the target, sticking close to the buildings. They slow down once they’re across the street from their target, hiding themselves in the shadows, and edge forward until they have a decent view.

It’s rather small and unimpressive as far as warehouses go: a squat, blocky, industrial structure with a wide door. Its windows glow dimly, lit from the inside. A motorcycle is parked out front alongside a few other vehicles and trucks. In the sparse light from the streetlamps, McCree can make out several figures milling about near the entrance.

“We’ve got eyes on the prize. There's activity.” He keeps his voice hushed, little more than a growl.

“Let’s get a bit closer.” A low murmur in his ear. “This way.”

Ana brushes past him. He follows her lead around the side of the darkened building they’re pressed against, keeping one hand on the holster strapped to his belt under his jacket. The familiar shape and bulk of his weapon is reassuring, an anchor. They creep forward along the wall until they can more clearly see the group of dark-clothed figures--four total--standing outside the warehouse. They’re soon joined by another figure emerging from within the building, this one with black body armor and a distinct ballistic helmet obscuring their face.

McCree’s fingers tense reflexively around the Peacekeeper’s grip. “‘That’s--”

“Talon,” Ana affirms, voice grim. “One agent, at least.”

He moves to take another step forward but a firm hand on his arm stops him.

Ana’s staring across the street, mouth tight and brow furrowed. She turns and looks him in the eyes. “Let’s pull back. We have what we need for now.”

He glances back at the storehouse. A strip of light spills out from the gap between the doors as the figures file into the building. It narrows and disappears when the door shuts behind them. He releases a breath, then meets Ana's gaze again and nods.

 

 

 

“So, it appears our suspicions were correct,” Winston states, expression somber.

Back at the apartment, McCree sits forward on the couch, leaning closer to the tablet on the coffee table. “No doubt that was a Talon agent at the warehouse. Still got no clue what they’re up to, though.”

“How many of those people were Talon, d’you think?” Lena wonders, rubbing her chin in the video window.

Beside her, Ana shakes her head. “I don’t know. We’ll set up surveillance on the building ASAP,” she says.

“By the way, Hanzo got a sample of the drug,” McCree adds, glancing next to him where Hanzo’s sipping his tea.

“Excellent,” Winston says. “I’ll let Angela know.”

“And the tracker?” Hanzo asks, putting aside his cup.

“I’ll keep it active a bit longer to gather more intel and then I'll trigger its disable function remotely. It's programmed to silently self-destruct on command when it’s traveling at upwards of a certain velocity so as to minimize the traces it leaves behind.”

“Nifty,” Lena comments, eyebrows raised.

McCree runs a hand through his hair. “So what next? Hanzo ‘n’ I can scope out the warehouse some more tomorrow.”

“About that…” Winston adjusts his glasses, expression morphing into sheepishness. “There’s been a change in plans,” he says, tone apologetic.

McCree frowns. “What?”

“You--” The scientist breaks off, gaze flitting to something else. “Actually, I’ll let him tell you himself.”

A moment later, a third video connect window appears on-screen.

“Morrison?”

“McCree," the soldier says. "We’re pulling you and Hanzo out of Numbani."

“Temporarily,” Winston hastens to clarify.

“Now, what’s going on?” McCree growls.

“A new job’s come up,” Morrison answers, brusque as ever. “It’s high priority. Before you ask, you’ll get the details once you’re at your new assignment. We’ve arranged a transport for you at oh-eight hundred hours, usual place. Better pack up quick.”

“Care to tell us where the hell we’re going?”

Morrison spares a single, curt word before he ends his video connect line:

“Berlin.”

 


	4. BERLIN

 

Morrison’s there to meet them when the Aurora OSS-7 touches down in Berlin. They’re the only two aboard the flight for the whole way there. It's downright cozy, if you ask McCree, but he doesn’t even get a chance to sneak a nap; it feels like he blinked and the carrier door’s sliding open and Athena’s dulcet voice is announcing their arrival.

The soldier’s standing on the floor of the landing pad in his signature jacket and visor. He nods at them in greeting as they step off the carrier with their gear. Around them, the sleek, curved planes of the high-rise structure they’ve alighted upon--it looks to be some sort of research facility--gleam palely in the light of the morning.

“Morrison. What’s the fire?” McCree asks once they’re out, promptly lighting up a cigarillo and wedging it between his lips. The burn of spice and smoke provides only a tiny burst of wakefulness but he’ll take anything.

“Let’s walk and talk,” the soldier says, jerking his head in the direction of a large double door leading into the facility across the polished walkway. Once they fall into step with him down the stairs leading off of the pad, he begins: “Several medical research labs in the region have been the target of break-ins recently. There have been at least two such attacks here in Berlin in as many weeks. The latest one was two days ago.”

Hanzo frowns thoughtfully. “This was on the news, was it not?”

“Right”--McCree snaps his fingers--“it was on TV last week.”

Morrison nods. “We started monitoring the situation, and we now suspect that Talon’s the one behind the raids.”

“Shit, Talon again? You’re kiddin’ me. Are those bastards everywhere?”

“Sure seems like it these days.”

They reach the entrance. The thick glass panels slide open automatically while, behind them, the Orca hums as Athena guides it into liftoff. Abruptly, Morrison lifts his arm; McCree stops short to avoid walking straight into it. The soldier’s gaze cuts to the cigarillo in his mouth. “You’re gonna have to put that out, McCree.”

Grumbling, McCree acquiesces, grinding the lit end out with a metal thumb. Sliding the now-unlit stick back into his pocket for later, he follows Morrison and Hanzo in through the entrance. Angela’s in the hall just inside, garbed in full uniform. She looks up from her datapad at their approach.

“There you two are,” she says. _“Willkommen in Berlin._ I trust you had a good flight?”

McCree shrugs. “Not quite as long as I’d hoped, but other than that just dandy.”

Her expression softens in understanding. “Sorry about the short notice. We know you two must be tired, but this was urgent.”

“What’s ‘this’, exactly?”

“A med lab here is worried about the safety of an important delivery and has requested an escort,” Morrison says. “We’ll be helping their payload vehicle get to the destination facility across the city.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“You two, me, Angela’s here as backup. We'll also be partnering with Helix Securities on the extended operation.”

“Y’mean Fareeha'll be here too,” McCree jokes.

“That's _Captain_ Fareeha to you.”

He turns to the source of the voice. The dark-haired woman strides toward them from the hallway, shoulders squared beneath her official-looking jacket, emblazoned on one sleeve with the black and gold logo of her company. He crosses his arms and eyes her with his chin tipped up as she approaches, as if sizing her up.

“‘S that right?” he drawls.

She meets his stare unblinkingly. “Indeed. Technically, I outrank you,” she says with a cool smirk.

He raises a languid brow, chewing on the end of his cigarillo. “Technically. But I ain’t one of your guard dogs.” He holds her gaze a moment longer before he drops the act and lets the grin he’s been holding back split his face. “Howdy, stranger.”

Fareeha smiles back in kind, her entire demeanor relaxing. “Howdy yourself, _stranger.”_

“‘S good to see you again.”

“You say that like you’re not the one who’s horribly inept at checking their messages.”

“I do check ‘em!” He shrugs ruefully. “I jus’, y’know, forget to respond sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well alright, mister I’m-too-busy-to-answer-my-texts. Excuse my measly attempts at keeping in touch.”

“Pardon granted,” he answers mock-loftily.

“Anyway”--Fareeha turns to the others, all business again--“what’s this about Talon targeting med labs?”

“As you know, there have been break-ins at several medical research facilities in Germany and Switzerland in the past few weeks,” Morrison repeats. “We now suspect Talon is the one that behind them. We’ve launched an extended investigation mission on the matter.”

Angela continues, “The job today is a simple escort mission. Our client is the Berlin branch of the _Biomedica-Institut für Experimentelle Biomedizin._ ”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Indeed. It’s one of the labs that have been targeted before. Winston helped hook us up with the job. We thought it would be a good way to begin scoping out situation. This building belongs to them actually, though not all of the floors are research labs. As you can probably guess from their name, their field of expertise is biomedicine with a focus on experimental treatments. They’ve done much to advance the field over the years. They have a late delivery scheduled for this evening from their main lab up to a sister facility about eighteen kilometers north.”

“What’s the cargo? Do we know?” Fareeha asks.

“Apparently some delicate test samples and materials. The details are confidential, but it’s nothing too out of the ordinary, just precious because of their potential experimental significance.” Angela shrugs. “I’m inclined to agree.”

“The payload’s departing at twenty-one-hundred,” Morrison says. “We’ll map out the route beforehand and split up to scout it out. We’re not expecting trouble, but Talon’s been unusually active in this area this past week.”

“I get the urgency, but was it really necessary to fly us out this early?” McCree grumbles. He really could have used the few hours more of shuteye.

Angela smiles apologetically. “I’ll make it up to you. Lunch is on me. If I recall correctly, there’s a nice brunch place just down the street.”

 

 

 

Twilight’s settling in by the time the payload departs. The sky's a deep, smoky blue, tinged peach pink along the flat horizon. In a separate car, they follow the delivery van down wide, tree-lined boulevards and long streets with the tall, ever-visible spire of the Fernsehturm projecting starkly out from the city skyline.

Despite their vigilance, they encounter nothing on the trip. A short while later, they arrive at the destination facility—a large, boxy building at the end of a darkened street lined tightly with similar structures. They pull up to the front of the building. Angela hops out of the car to converse with the driver of the delivery van as a few workers busy themselves with unloading their cargo and carrying it inside through a side door.

McCree lights up a cigarillo and leans against the car, eyeing the lab. It’s long and sleek with huge sheets of glass inlaid into the smooth, white-faced outer walls. The street-facing side displays the no-nonsense logo of the Biomedical Institute, differentiating the facility from the other buildings around it. It's probably a fair sight during the daytime, but with the sun down just about all of the windows are dark.

“Busy,” he remarks.

Beside him, Morrison gives the facility a brief glance. His visor burns a red line through the dark. “It’s after hours, technically. Most people have probably gone home.”

McCree grunts and blows out a ring of smoke. It’s quiet, the silence of the street broken only by the rumble of an occasional passing car. The urban hum is muted here, as if this pocket of the city is removed from the activity of the rest of the metropolis. He looks over the building again; its darkened panes gape hollowly back at him. The base of his neck prickles, the sensation barely there but disquieting nonetheless.

“‘M gonna make a round of the place,” he says quietly. When Morrison nods, McCree pushes off the side of the vehicle and makes off toward the lab. Hanzo falls into step beside him without a word, bow in hand.

“You feel it too?” McCree mutters out of the corner of his mouth as they make their way down the long side of the building. Hanzo makes a near-inaudible grunt of assent, eyes scanning the facility.

They spot nothing out of the ordinary while they circle around to the other long end of the building. Near the halfway point, Fareeha meets up with them, having apparently had the same idea.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

He senses Hanzo stiffen beside him a moment before the other man speaks lowly into the commlink: “Intruders--on the roof.”

McCree follows his gaze, hand reaching reflexively for his revolver. Sure enough, he can just make out some shadowy movement atop the building, though it’s difficult to see from this angle. “Good eye,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the other man to hear.

Morrison’s voice buzzes through in response. _“Acknowledged. You three get up top and investigate. Apprehend them, or take them out if necessary. We’ll will circle around to check for others.”_

Hanzo’s off before Morrison's even done talking, scaling up the smooth face of the building with remarkable ease. _Show off._

“Need a lift?” Fareeha asks, turning to him and dropping the golden visor of her helmet. With the added inch or so her Raptora suit gives her, they’re nearly the same height.

“Could use a wing or two, yeah.”

She steps behind him and gets an arm underneath each of his. He gets a warning of, “Hang on tight,” then, for a moment, his stomach feels like it’s dropping clean out of his body and his ears roar with the rushing of the wind as they rocket up the side of the building. Three seconds and fifty feet later, Fareeha deposits him onto the roof behind a covered corner, landing with a soft _thump_ beside him. From his cover, McCree can make out about five figures garbed in black stealth suits and helmets shifting around on the very far side of the roof.

“Looks like we’ve found our burglars. I count five. Hanzo, you around?”

The archer’s reply is immediate: _“Affirmative.”_ He’s nowhere in sight, which means the he’s probably tucked himself away somewhere in one of the many nooks nearby.

“Alright, game plan. We sneak up 'n’ circle 'em, pick ‘em off unawares ‘fore they can get in. Sound good?”

Fareeha nods once, sharply.

Morrison’s voice comes through the feed. “ _Keep me in the loop. Mercy and I will secure the perimeter.”_

“Roger that,” Fareeha replies.

They begin advancing on the figures, keeping low and as quiet as they’re able, weapons drawn. The rapidly deepening darkness works to their advantage. McCree’s glad he decided to leave off his spurs earlier. Soon, he makes out that the figures are clustered around a door set into a raised wall at the other end of the roof. Out of the left corner of his eye, McCree spots Hanzo materializing out of a dark corner. Within minutes, they’ve crossed roughly half the distance, enough to get them within clear sight of the figures but not so close as to be easily noticed.

“Talon three to Talon two. Preparing for override and entry.”

McCree picks up the muttered update faintly, and by the looks of it Fareeha and Hanzo did too. The three of them exchange swift nods and then they’re acting, fanning out to encircle the group from different angles. Without warning, McCree takes out the two directly ahead in succession, catching them each with a bullet to the leg and shoulder to take them down. Simultaneously, an arrow lodges itself in the shoulders of a third and fourth person and they topple over, clutching their wounds. Startled, the last intruder--the one closest to the door--turns around only to be caught in the arm and leg by two shots from Fareeha’s handgun.

Swiftly, they close in on the wounded agents, weapons up and at the ready.

“Last chance to stand down, strangers,” McCree calls out. He gets no indication of compliance, only bitten curses and shuffling as they scrabble for their weapons. One manages to get a shot at him but it whizzes past his head. Another chokes out, “Talon three--code re--”, before he shuts them up with a bullet through the skull. Fareeha and Hanzo swiftly take out the remaining four before they can retaliate.

In a wink, it’s over. Five figures crumpled on the floor, weapons strewn about them.

“We’ve neutralized the intruders,” Fareeha announces. “Five. Undoubtedly Talon.” Planted next to the locked door, wired to the authorization keypad, is a small, black, rectangular device. She steps over the scattered bodies to rip the lock crack from the wall. “Looks like they were trying to bypass the security system.”

While Hanzo squats down next to the bodies to inspect them, McCree takes a more thorough look around. The matching heights of the buildings on the block makes it so that he has a clear line of view down the long row of rooftops. The buildings are flush enough that the gaps between them could be jumped with little effort.

“They must’a crossed over from the next roof down.”

 _“No sign of anyone down here,”_ Angela informs them.

“I do not hear anything over their communicators,” Hanzo says, standing smoothly.

“That ain’t a good sign. Can’t be long ‘fore--” Right then, McCree’s ears perk up: cutting through the silence, sirens blare faintly, overpowered by the distant but distinct sound of chopper blades beating the air. He grimaces. “Speak of the devil.”

 _“You three on the roof, withdraw. Now,”_ Morrison barks through the comm.

McCree grits his teeth and tosses one last look at the fallen Talon agents, now barely visible lumps in the dusk, as the three of them scramble away and off of the building. Morrison and Angela are waiting for them in the rumbling car; they peel away as soon as McCree, the last to enter, climbs aboard.

“The delivery’s safe. They finished unloading it before you three spotted the intruders,” Angela informs them from the front seat. “We’ve alerted the authorities of the attempted break-in so they most likely won't try anything again here any time soon. Regardless, there’s not much more we can do now.”

Through the rear window, McCree can make out the bulky shape of a helicopter flying toward the research facility. Sure enough, the sound of the sirens is getting louder by the second, though the road behind them is still empty. “What I wouldn’t give to know what those bastards are after.”

“You and me both,” Morrison growls, fists tight on the steering wheel. They’re silent for the rest of their uneventful ride back to the origin point.

Back beneath the shadow of the looming _Biomedica_ building, Morrison addresses them again: “Good work today. The escort job was successful and we managed to throw a wrench in Talon’s plans to break in.”

McCree frowns. “Wish we coulda done more. Y’sure the authorities got this?”

“Either way, there is not much more we could have done in this situation,” Fareeha points out. “Not with reinforcements on the way.”

Angela nods wearily. “Fareeha’s right. It would have been far too dangerous to stay. We’re outnumbered enough as it is. Anyway, we’ll continue to investigate and monitor the situation now that we know for sure Talon is behind these raids. I don’t know what they’re planning, but… it’s worrisome.”

After a short, solemn pause, Morrison speaks up. “We’ll continue to investigate and monitor the situation. We have good reason to believe they'll strike again, but”--he looks to McCree and Hanzo--“we don’t have a sufficiently secure safehouse nearby so we’re sending you two back to the watchpoint for the time being.”

“What about Numbani? The storehouse?” McCree argues.

“We’ve bugged the Talon warehouse and are keeping it under surveillance,” Angela replies, “and, thanks to you, we now have a sample of the drug that I can analyze. All we can do now is wait.”

He mouths his cigar irritably. “Like sittin’ ducks.”

Morrison’s visored face turns to him. “Think of it as being on standby. We need you available for other missions should they come up.”

McCree huffs out a stream of smoke, angling it to one side. For a brief moment, his gazes catches onto Hanzo’s. The man's expression is impassive--no surprise there--but his eyes hint that he’s none too happy about this either, McCree can tell. Nevertheless, Morrison’s tone leaves no room for argument. It rarely ever does.

 

 

 

And so, they’re sent back to the watchpoint for the foreseeable future. Hanzo's immediately whisked away the a day later for a mission in London. McCree’s left to prowl around the base, listless and bored. ‘Being on standby’ really just means ‘waiting for something bad to happen’, and _that’s_ a surefire way to make him antsy.

He gets one afternoon of action chasing away stray Los Muertos members in Dorado, but the rest of the time he’s stuck in the rock, feeling adrift. He joins the morning training drills with the other agents in the base and passes some hours in the gym working the weights and sandbags, some hours at the shooting range until his ears ring. In between, he chugs coffee and smokes out on the gangway. By day four, the routine’s already gotten old.

He leans against the rail out on his smoking spot, the salty breeze stirring his bangs under the low brim of his hat. The sunlight flickers over the ocean’s surface, blindingly bright. The air feels tense somehow, and stifling despite the wind, like before a storm, but the only clouds there are are wispy and far out on the horizon. He fidgets with his cigarillo, rolls it between his fingers between drags. Tries not to think about how the fluttering of the blue-and-orange Overwatch flag reminds him all too keenly of something else.

Absently, he pulls his phone out of his pocket to check for mission updates (there are none), finally replies to Fareeha’s text from a week ago with an offer to grab a drink together the next time she’s in town, then thumbs through the rest of his messages (none unread). The last text from Hanzo was three days ago, a succinct “Thanks” to McCree’s “Good luck!” regarding his mission.

McCree stubs out his cigarillo, flicking the cherry stump away before wandering back indoors. He makes a pit stop at the kitchen, then, after a moment’s deliberation, grabs his tablet from his quarters and heads over to the rec hall. It’s empty--the rest of the agents are either out on a mission or elsewhere within the base--but the TV on the wall in the back is switched on as it usually is during the day, tuned to some media channel he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about.

He collapses heavily onto one of the plush couches and makes himself comfortable, kicking his legs up and propping them on the short table while he pulls up an e-book on his tablet. Thirty minutes later, he glances up as Lúcio and Hana walk into the room, giving them a nod and lazy salute. The two younger agents settle down next to one of the video game consoles and proceed to converse enthusiastically about something or other on Hana’s phone. McCree doesn’t bother listening to what they’re talking about, merely lets the hum of their conversation fade into the back of his consciousness, joining the indistinct droning of the TV in the background.

The page in front of him blurs out of focus. He thinks back to the rooftop, of the black-armored intruders, the all too familiar sight of the faintly-glowing eyeslits on their ballistic helmets, eerie red dots puncturing the darkness. The same, too, that night in Numbani, outside the storehouse: dull glinting of light off of a metal helmet, a single pair of red circles, ominous amid the shadowed circle of figures. Ana’s warning grip on his elbow, the tense set of her jaw.

“Hey man, you alright?”

McCree looks up as Lúcio settles into the seat across from his, having left Hana to fiddle with the game console. The DJ peers at him, elbows propped on his knees, concern written all over his face. McCree realizes his mouth is drawn tight at the corners and plasters on a smile. “Yeah.”

“Sorry ‘bout the noise.” Lúcio rubs his neck sheepishly. “Don’t mean to bother ya. We can move somewhere else.”

“Naw, no need,” McCree assures him, shaking his head, “‘S fine. You’re fine.”

“Y’sure?”

“Yeah. ‘S jus’--white noise. I, uh, don't mind it. Beats silence.”

“Hmm.” Lúcio peers at him. “Y’know, if you like background noise, why don’t you try listenin’ to music? Or, y’know, podcasts and the like if that’s more your jam. I think I’ve got a spare pair of earbuds in my room if you need some.”

McCree scratches his beard. “Guess I could. Never really picked up the habit, I s’pose.”  Having one’s ears plugged isn’t the smartest tactic for a lifestyle like his, after all. But, the base is safe enough, he reckons. “I’ll think on it.”

“Alright, man. Just lemme know.”

McCree drains his last drops of his coffee then stands, offering the other man a jaunty wave of his mug. “Gotta refuel.”

Lúcio returns his smile. “Later, man. I swear you drink that stuff like water. Dunno how you do it--one cup for me and I’m buzzin’ the rest of the day.”

"'S a curse 'n' a gift, my friend. A curse ‘n’ a gift.”

 

 

 

McCree’s pouring himself another generous cuppa when Angela walks into the kitchen.

“Hey Angie,” he greets her, quickly schooling his expression into something that can pass for pleasant. “G’mornin’”--he glances at the clock--“er, afternoon.”

She flashes him a smile as she walks over to the cupboards. “Good afternoon, Jesse.”

McCree leans against the marble counter, watching her. Her lab coat’s buttoned all the way and her hair’s pinned up in a high bun. She probably came straight from her lab, from the looks of it. “How goes the work?” he asks.

“It’s coming along. I’m in the process of running some basic compound breakdown analyses on the drug sample you and Hanzo acquired.” She retrieves a packet of tea from the shelves and setting about preparing a cup with the hot water from the electric kettle.

“Anything of interest?”

“Mm, not yet. But I’ll have a better idea once I get the results.” Plopping the tea bag into her cup, she turns him. “How are you doing?”

He shrugs, a jerky lift and drop of his shoulders. “Fine.”

“Hm...” She looks him over with a critical eye, gaze flickering for a moment to the mug in his hand then back to his face. He tries not to stiffen under her scrutiny. It never fails to be disconcerting the way her demeanor can switch in an instant from casual and friendly to clinically professional.

“What? Something on my face?” he jokes.

“How many cups of coffee have you had today?”

“Uh. Two. Three? Definitely no more’n four.”

“Jesse, you should really watch your caffeine intake,” she chides, shaking her head.

“‘S just a few cups a day, Angie, not even the strong stuff. Ain’t nothin’.”

“Do you know the signs of too much caffeine?”

“Superpowers?” he hazards.

“Headaches. Irritability. Insomnia. _Restlessness.”_ She looks pointedly at his fingers, which he’d been drumming against the counter. He stops.

“So I take it that's a no to superpowers.”

She sighs. “Just try to cut back a bit, okay?”

“These doctor’s orders?”

She purses her lips. “Jesse--”

“Alright, alright, I’ll cut back. If I start suffering withdrawal symptoms, though, I’m blaming you.”

“I think you’ll live,” she replies, rolling her eyes.

He takes one last swig of coffee before abandoning the cup in the dishwasher and letting out an exaggerated sigh. “What else am I s’posed to drink?”

“Try water,” she says drily.

“Anyway"--he points an accusing finger at her--"you’re one to talk ‘bout watching yourself. I know how late you stay holed up in that lab of yours.”

“It’s not the same. At least I know how to properly feed myself. You _have_ been eating, right?”

He doesn’t miss her casual deflection but decides to let it slide. “‘Course I have,” he lies, “I’m a grown adult, Angie.”

“I’ll believe it when you act it,” she quips, and drops the used tea bag in the trash receptacle.

“Ouch.”

“Oh, by the way, it’s my turn to make dinner tonight. Sausage and leek. You should show up. I know you've been skipping out to mope in your room.”

McCree reels back, feigning offense. “I ain't doing nothin’ of the sort.”

“Mhm.” She looks skeptical. “And you shouldn’t smoke so much,” she calls after him as he scurries out of the room. He pretends not to hear her.

 

 

 

Hanzo returns shortly before midnight the next day. To his credit, McCree gives him ample time to debrief and settle back in before knocking at his door.

It opens only a few seconds later like Hanzo’d been expecting him. McCree’s treated to the sight of the man looking freshly showered, black hair tumbling over his shoulders, wearing a pair of sweatpants that pool around his bare feet and no shirt. McCree takes a quick moment to drink in that delightful view--to check for injuries, not _just_ to ogle. As far as he can tell, Hanzo’s unhurt.

“Howdy.”

Hanzo blinks, not looking surprised to see him in the slightest. “McCree,” the other mansays by way of greeting, discreetly peeking around him to scan the empty hallway. McCree leans his shoulder against the doorframe and offers him a warm smile when their gazes meet again.

“Welcome back, darlin’. I missed ya.”

A beat. “Did you?” Hanzo’s expression is inscrutable.

“Dearly.”

Hanzo doesn’t respond to that. If he’s thrown by the frank sincerity of McCree’s tone, he doesn’t show it, just takes a small step backward. “Well? Do you intend to come in?”

“'Depends. You inviting me in?” McCree replies with a grin.

Hanzo just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘foolish cowboy’, then turns and walks back into the room. It's a clear invitation. McCree pushes off of the wall and follows him inside. With a muted whir, the door closes behind him.

“How was London?” he asks, sitting down on the edge of the remarkably uncluttered bed. Despite the fact that he just got back from a mission, Hanzo’s room is as tidy as ever; there aren’t even any stray clothes or pieces of gear lying around. It’s amazing how the man manages it.

Hanzo crosses over to the dresser and pulls a t-shirt out from one of the drawers, answering shortly, “It was fine,” before tugging the shirt over his head.

McCree watches Hanzo putter about the room. He hadn't realized until the moment Hanzo’s door opened and the archer was standing in front of him again just how affected he'd been by the man’s absence. He tries not to dwell too much on that thought. Eventually, Hanzo wanders over to the bed and looks down at him, face shadowed. McCree parts his knees--wordless encouragement for the other man to step in between them. After a brief pause, Hanzo does just that, shuffling in until McCree’s face is level with his chest; McCree eagerly rests his flesh hand on the warm dip of his back and tips his head back to meet Hanzo’s lidded gaze, spotting exhausted smudges under the man’s eyes.

“Rough mission?” he asks, sympathetic.

“No. It went smoothly.”

McCree frowns. “That’s good. Y’look right tuckered out though, sweetheart.” With gentle pressure, he urges Hanzo forward. The man obliges him, pressing closer and resting his hands on McCree’s shoulders for balance. McCree brings his other arm up to join the first, looping around Hanzo’s torso in a loose hug.

“I… did not rest well,” Hanzo admits finally, eyes averted. McCree tries not to let anything show on his face, but there's no way Hanzo could’ve missed the way his arms tightened out of reflex for a brief moment, though he mentions nothing of it.

“Well, that makes two of us,” McCree replies, keeping his tone mild.

Hanzo lifts one hand to lightly trace his jaw and rub along the grain of his beard. “Is that so.”

McCree rumbles a wordless affirmation, eyes closing to savor the sensation. He turns his head and presses a light kiss to the fingers. “Wanna lie down a spell?” he asks, hopeful.

Hanzo grunts ambiguously. McCree releases him immediately when he pulls away, leaning back to give him space, but he just reaches over to the nightstand to turn off the lights before climbing onto the mattress and reclining back into the pillows. McCree flops down next to him and rolls onto his stomach so he’s partially on top of the other man, happily burying his face in the crook of his neck and the loose strands of his hair. Hanzo allows it, likely too worn out to fight back even if he wanted.

Hanzo’s soft and warm from the shower. McCree noses at the juncture of his jaw and throat, breathing in his familiar, addictive musk laced with the creamy, citrus-y scent of whatever product he uses, before giving in and mouthing at the tender flesh. He kisses under his chin, a playful nip at flesh followed by an apologetic lick. The other man tastes clean and ever so subtly sweet.

Hanzo lets out a faint, pleased sigh and scratches lightly at the strands of hair at the base of his neck. “Jesse,” he murmurs.

McCree hums in response, mouth not leaving Hanzo’s skin. Those deft fingers feel delicious against his scalp. The man’s closeness piques McCree’s senses; they’re pervaded by Hanzo’s scent and flavor, and he’s all too willing to sink into that warm, heady haze. Hanzo gets his hands on either side of McCree’s face, fingers threading through mussed locks, and guides his head in until their lips meet. McCree keeps his eyes open to watch as Hanzo shuts his, lashes dark against his cheeks, expression loose and content. The kiss is barely more than a lazy glide of lips moving against each other, unhurried and chaste, but damn if it don't feel like heaven. When they part, it's with a soft noise that echoes around the otherwise soundless room.

“Oh, honey,” McCree breathes, pressing their foreheads together, “I really did miss ya.”

“It was only three days, Jesse.”

“Don’t matter how long it was, sweet pea. Ached every damn minute.”

Hanzo huffs out a breath. “You are so--what was the term Lena used before? Soppy.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

Hanzo dips his head and bites lightly at McCree's jugular, sharp canines marking pleasant pinpricks just on the right side of pain. McCree retaliates by pressing his teeth into the opposite side of Hanzo’s neck, right over his pulse, and working at the soft flesh he finds there with his mouth and tongue until he’s sure he’s left a bruise. The suppressed sound that evokes--bottled low Hanzo’s throat, but McCree can feel the vibration of it against his lips--is a sweet bonus.

“Numbani spoiled me,” he mumbles into Hanzo’s skin.

“Hm?”

McCree just presses another kiss to his clavicle, then one on the small mole dotting his shoulder. Hanzo’s fingers bury themselves in his hair, holding him near as the archer melts back into the sheets, lax and loose-limbed. McCree shifts and settles more fully over him, resting much of his weight on him, not that Hanzo seems to mind. McCree runs his hands from Hanzo’s ribcage down to his waist, the touch as grounding as it is exploratory, then lower still to rub along the outside of his thighs, appreciating the curve of them, soft and solid in equal measure. Hanzo draws him closer until their torsos are pressed tightly together and their legs are tangled, and continues to run sluggish fingers through his hair.

Unsurprisingly, McCree can feel the pleasant burn of arousal that never seems far off whenever he’s this close to Hanzo. It swells slowly, a persistent, liquid heat pooling low in his gut, fueling his roaming touches and sharpening his awareness, but it’s not paramount. He’s content to stay just like this, holding and being held by Hanzo, relishing the intimate warmth and bulk of him, the steady thud of his pulse.

McCree doesn’t think he was always this clingy--he’d gotten used to otherwise, that’s for sure--but touching Hanzo again after having gone without for the past few days feels divine. He doesn’t think he could bear letting go. At least, not for a little while.

They stay like that, twined comfortably around each other, breaths easy and heartbeats matched, until he’s rightly lost track of time. He only--finally--releases his hold when Hanzo shifts upright, jostling him off. A sudden wave of uncertainty washes over him as he watches the play of the other man's back muscles through thin cotton. There’s a question lodged in his throat, stuck on something he can’t quite name. But it recedes as quickly as it came when Hanzo merely tugs the blanket from under their bodies over the both of them before relaxing back once more.

McCree shifts around under the sheet until he’s shed of his sweats and shirt, dropping them carelessly to the floor, then throws his flesh arm over Hanzo’s torso. He would bid him good night but the man's already out like a light.

 


	5. BARE

 

> **AUTOMATIC RECORD #004**  
>  **20XX-05-30T21:14:47+01:00**  
>  **NUMBANI 9.071878, 7.396078**  
>   
> 
> **[TRANSCRIPT START]**
> 
>  
> 
> _[SHUFFLING]_
> 
> 1: “T-two-one-three, status?”
> 
> 2: “Everything’s going smoothly. We’ve received the second part of the shipment today, as per schedule.”
> 
> 1: “And the rest?”
> 
> 2: “Should be arriving within the next three hours, then it’ll all be ready to be routed to destination."
> 
> 1: “Good, we need that payload ASAP.”
> 
> _[SHUFFLING]_
> 
> _[RUMBLING, ENGINE NOISES]_
> 
> 1: “—R and D underway at—promising so far—”
> 
> 2:“—ready for phase two—”
> 
> 1: “—be much longer now—word is—higher ups—omnium—greenlit—”
> 
> 2: “—tact with—”
> 
> 1: “—cooperate—who knew—types—so—”
> 
> _[CHUCKLING]_
> 
> _[FADING UNINTELLIGIBLE CHATTER]_
> 
>  
> 
> **[TRANSCRIPT END 21:28:12]**

 

Winston pauses the playback when the audio cuts. “That’s the last voice recording we have, taken just under two hours ago. Unfortunately, it seems they cleared out soon after that.”

“It looks like they mentioned ‘omnium’ here,” Lena says, leaning forward and peering at her screen in Numbani, where she and Ana currently are.

“That does not bode well,” Hanzo remarks. “Was there anything else?”

“That’s all of it.” Winston gestures to the holodisplays showing the other transcripts of the data dump that’d just been transferred fresh from the bug they’d planted in the Numbani storehouse. “The other recordings we got are about the same--talking about shipments and so forth, but nothing about a purpose or destination. The storehouse’s been quiet most of the week, up until today.”

Up on the video display, Ana crosses her arms. “Looks like we’ll have to start taking a more direct approach,” she says. “I haven’t read through Angela’s full report of her standard compound analysis of the drug yet but it doesn’t seem to contain anything immediately enlightening for us. The omnium thing could be our only new clue so far. We should investigate whether anything suspicious has been happening on that front.”

“I agree,” Winston says, already tapping away at his keyboard. “It doesn’t look like there’s been anything outstanding of the sort lately but I’ll have Athena look into it more.”

Ana continues, “In the meantime, we should get a closer look at this warehouse. I’m thinking tomorrow evening. McCree, Hanzo, I’d like backup from you two for that if you are available.” They nod and she adds, “Lena and I discovered a second potential Talon storehouse a few days ago which we’ll check on as well.”

“Sorry, Winston,” Lena says, “looks like we’ll have to postpone movie night again.”

“It’s quite alright, Lena. Can’t be helped.”

“Anyway,” Ana says, “it’s getting late. I’ll call a meeting in the morning to discuss our next course of action.”

With that, they bid one other good night. Giving a parting salute to Winston, McCree follows Hanzo as he leaves the room and heads in the direction of their resting quarters.

The two of them received the impromptu summons message from Winston only after an evening workout session at the gym. They had just enough time for a quick shower each, and a speedy smoke break for McCree, before they had to dash over to the meeting room, so no doubt Hanzo wants to change out of the thin t-shirt he’d thrown on in his haste (likely a gift from Hana, judging by the pink cartoon rabbit adorning one corner of it).

McCree checks his phone as they make their way through the hallways, dimly lit by the strips of light running along the steel-gray walls. The lack of updates from Morrison is unsurprising given the fact that they’d just had another--this time uneventful--escort mission for a different med lab in Berlin earlier that day. He stays quiet the entire walk back to Hanzo’s room, hands stuffed deep in his the pockets of his sweatpants, eyes fixed unseeingly on Hanzo’s back.

He almost doesn’t notice when they reach Hanzo’s door until he narrowly stops himself from walking straight into the other man. The door slides open and Hanzo steps inside; after a beat, McCree trails in after him.

He leans against the wall with his arms crossed as the lights slowly illuminate. Hanzo’s bow rests unstrung atop his dresser, its silver bowstring coiled neatly next to it. McCree traces the elegant shape of the weapon with his eyes: all sharp angles combined seamlessly with graceful curves, stormy grey and blue, scratched and nicked in places but no less impressive to behold. It’s always somewhat strange seeing such a fine weapon in repose, resting innocuously on its side. He supposes his Peacekeeper must be the same way.

“What are you thinking?”

He looks over at Hanzo, who’s looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He offers a noncommittal grunt in answer.

Hanzo pads over to him until they’re toe to toe. McCree doesn’t meet his eyes when the man peers up at him through the messy curtain of his bangs.

“You have been quiet all night. It is not like you.”

McCree sighs, shoulders lifting then slumping again with the breath. “It’s drivin’ me up the wall,” he bites out finally, “the way we’re tiptoeing ‘round like mice. Back in the old days we woulda busted into that warehouse soon as we caught a _whiff_ of Talon on it.”

Hanzo frowns. “That may be so, but--”

“--but Overwatch ain’t like it used to be, we ain’t got the resources now, we’re too outnumbered, I know, I know.” He lets out a frustrated puff of air. Runs a hand through his hair. “But it’s still damn maddening, the way we gotta creep around like this. Never able to make the first move. Just feels like it’s not _enough.”_

The other man is silent.

“... Sorry,” McCree mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

“It is alright,” Hanzo replies evenly. “I… share your sentiments.”

“Didn’t mean to take it out on ya, though, honeybee. Guess the lack of caffeine’s making me a bit snappy.”

“Oh?”

“Angie cut me off’a coffee. Partially.” McCree gives a sheepish shrug. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of the stuff right this moment. Maybe it’d quash this restless feeling itching at the back of his brain.

“Hn. Are you experiencing any other changes?”

“Nah, just a bit of fatigue, frayed nerves. Y'know, what you'd expect. I’m still allowed a cup or two a day.”

“I do not think you could function at all if you abstained from the stuff entirely.”

He chuckles. “Ain’t true. I can quit anytime I wanna.”

“Just as you could quit smoking those cigars of yours?”

He nods emphatically. “Yep. Exactly like that.”

“Hn.” Hanzo simply raises an eyebrow at him.

“You gotta allow a fella _some_ vices,” he defends.

“I do not know about that.” Hanzo reaches up and tugs the ribbon from the low, loose ponytail he’d tied his hair in after his shower, then walks over to the nightstand to set it down. McCree catches himself watching the silky cascade of long hair over wide shoulders before his eyes are drawn to the intricate tattoo decorating one muscled arm.

“Speaking of vices… how’s ‘bout you ‘n’ me grab a drink together?” he suggests. “Weather’s nice out on the roof.”

“The weather is _always_ nice here. And besides”--the other man glances over, hooded gaze dragging down the length of his torso before flicking up to his eyes--“I can think of other _vices_ we could indulge in right now.”

McCree clasps a hand to his chest, mouth stretching in a delighted grin. “Oh, _sweetheart._ How very  _forward_ of you.”

Hanzo turns to him fully with an exasperated roll of eyes. “Shut up and lose the clothing.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. Without preamble, he steps back and shucks off his sweatpants and t-shirt, tossing them in a careless pile on the floor.

Hanzo narrows his eyes. “No underwear? Really?”

McCree grins, sitting down on the foot of the bed and leaning back on his propped hands. “Real convenient, ain’t it?”

Hanzo scoffs at that but his gaze sticks to McCree as he strips off his own shirt off and places it neatly on a nearby chair along with his pants. Down to just his tight black boxer-briefs, he pads over to stand in front of McCree at the gunslinger's beckoning. McCree presses a kiss to his belly while his fingers hook into the waistband of his underwear and peel the garment off. Hanzo steps out of the slip of fabric when it falls to the floor. McCree wets his lips at the sight of Hanzo’s cock by his face, hanging heavy between the man’s thighs, and leans in for a taste but finds himself stopped when Hanzo grabs his chin with his thumb and forefinger. The other man tilts his face up, smirking down at him when he whines.

“Perhaps another time, cowboy. I have something else in mind tonight.”

“Oh? Care to tell?”

Hanzo climbs onto the bed and stretches out on the sheets, his splayed body a long, languid, enticing display. Drawn by the his inviting gaze, McCree climbs over him, drinking in the sight of him, too tempting not to touch, so he does: places both hands on Hanzo’s firm chest, fingers playing over the smooth, broad expanse of his pecs and ribcage, massages at soft skin and muscle when Hanzo arches into his touch. He slides his metal hand from Hanzo’s ribs down to lay over his flat stomach. When he curls his fingers slightly, the abdominal muscles beneath his fingertips quiver.

He grins gleefully. “Ticklish?”

“I am not.” Hanzo frowns. _Pouts,_ McCree thinks to himself.

“Uh huh. Don’t believe ya.”

Hanzo grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him down for a fierce kiss, teeth nicking wickedly at McCree’s lips--payback, probably--before McCree tilts his head and fits their mouths more firmly, hotly together. While Hanzo smooths his palms from McCree’s neck to his shoulders to grip at his deltoids, McCree traces along the defined V of the archer’s hipbones, fingers dipping teasingly low below his navel and over the fine trail of coarse hairs there, stopping just shy of making contact with the man’s half-erect cock.

Hanzo releases his hold and breaks away from the kiss to glare at him. “Stop teasing.”

“I ain’t. Just admiring.” McCree slides his grip down to the other man’s thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles into the tender undersides, and adjusts his grip to push them up. Lifting his hips, Hanzo effortlessly hooks his legs over McCree’s shoulders, wordlessly urging him near. McCree runs his hands along the line of Hanzo’s trim hips to upper thighs with reverence, feeling goosebumps break out over the skin in the wake of his touch. Hanzo’s legs tense--the only warning he gets--before they yank McCree down closer so he’s bent over him.

Hanzo lifts himself until his mouth’s by McCree’s ear, arms snaking around his shoulders. “You know,” he murmurs, conspiratory, “I thought about this while I was in London.”

“Did you now?” McCree responds, a smidge breathlessly. Bless the man’s flexibility. “And how did that go?”

“Mm.” The low, contemplative rumble near sends a shiver down his spine. “Not quite satisfactory.” A bite to his earlobe. “So you understand my… _impatience.”_ The last word is practically _breathed_ out against the shell of his ear.

Well then. If he wasn’t hard before he certainly is now.

“If ya wanted me to hurry up," he drawls, "ya coulda just asked. Wouldn’t wanna keep my honey wantin’.”

Hanzo falls back onto the bed then reaches over to yank the drawer out from the night table, scrabbling around for the lube and a condom before tossing the items onto the bed beside McCree with an expectant arch of a brow.

“Eager, are we?” McCree can’t help the roguish grin that tugs at his mouth, though it quickly drops away when Hanzo narrows his eyes and somehow manages to dig his heels into his back. “Ow, darlin’, alright.”

He bends down to press a kiss to Hanzo’s stomach while he coats three fingers from his flesh hand with a generous amount of the lube and rubs them together to warm it up before reaching down between Hanzo’s legs. Despite his earlier words, McCree can’t help but to tease a bit--it’s always so tempting when Hanzo’s all fired up like this, even at the risk of provoking the man's ire. He rubs the pads of two fingers back and forth over Hanzo’s hole, feeling the pucker flutter under his fingertips and getting it nice and slick in the process. He keeps his touch light even as Hanzo attempts to cant his hips, fruitlessly, into his movements, seeking more.

A glance upward shows Hanzo’s cheeks flushed prettily from the teasing touches, his eyes blown-out pools of black, eyebrows drawn and lower lip caught fast between his teeth as if to bite back his desperation. Eventually, McCree allows one of his fingers dip inside every so often, the barest hint of penetration, not nearly enough to be satisfying by any means. Each time, Hanzo’s breath hitches only to stutter out in disappointment when McCree withdraws the finger almost immediately to again play over and around the now-quivering hole. He repeats this a couple of times, pushing his luck until he can tell Hanzo’s about to snap.

Right when the other man opens his mouth, likely to tell him to hurry up, McCree finally slides his middle finger in up to the last knuckle, meeting hardly any resistance along the way--a sure tell of how worked up the other man is. Even with just the one digit breaching him, Hanzo’s back arches beautifully and he lets out a muffled groan like he was starving for it, head throwing back into the pillow. Mouth dry, McCree slips a second finger into the tight heat, working the copious amount of lube into Hanzo’s hole as he does. He scissors his fingers, smoothing slick over the tight muscle, withdrawing them only to push them back in, working more and more of the lube inside until his hole glistens obscenely.

“Y’like that, huh, sweetheart?” he murmurs, marveling at the soft texture of Hanzo’s inner walls, the way they clench and pull him deeper.

“Jesse,” Hanzo growls warningly.

McCree doesn’t answer, gaze fixed on the sight of his fingers working Hanzo gently loose. His other hand comes up to knead at Hanzo’s pecs and thumb over a pert nipple to distract him from the stretch. Hanzo’s legs twitch and flex where they’re propped up on his shoulders, jerking slightly whenever his fingers brush over a sensitive spot.

“McCree, _more,”_ Hanzo urges, rocking his hips upward to punctuate his demand.

Obligingly, McCree adds a third finger before curling the digits inside the silky heat, coaxing the tense muscle to loosen with each deliberate stroke. He fixes his gaze on Hanzo’s face now, enraptured by the subtle flickering of pleasure over his features. The other man is shivering minutely, thick eyebrows gathered in anticipation and eyes glued to the hand playing with his ass. A ruddy flush tints his cheeks, spread up to the tips of his ears and down his neck to reach the top of his heaving chest.

It’s downright adorable. McCree definitely does _not_ say that aloud.

Hanzo shakes as he presses his three fingers in as far as they’ll go until they’re buried knuckle-deep in plush heat. Wriggling them ever so carefully gets him a full-body shudder with Hanzo grinding down on his hand as well as his position allows him.

“So, what exactly didja think about in London, sugar?” McCree asks, rubbing along the stretched rim with his thumb.

“McCree--”

“C’mon, tell me.” He spreads his fingers within Hanzo. “Pretty please?”

“F-fuck. _This_ ”--a shallow gasp when he curls his digits again--“I thought about, about this, you--your hand stretching me open and then--”

“And then?” McCree prompts. His voice is hoarse even to his own ears. Hanzo just tips his face to one side, eyes squeezed stubbornly shut.

McCree withdraws his hand partway before thrusting it back in. Hanzo whines, head tossed back again, when he purposefully grazes his prostate with his fingertips, again when he repeats the motion. A disappointed sound drops from Hanzo’s mouth when he removes his hand entirely.

Pulling back a bit for room, McCree tears open the square foil packet and rolls on the condom, then hastily lubes himself up. Then he leans over Hanzo again, pressing the tip of his swollen cock to Hanzo’s hole but going no further than that. Hanzo tries to rock down onto him but his position--legs slung neatly over McCree’s shoulders, weight braced on his upper back, hips raised clear off of the bed--offers him no leverage, and McCree’s grip on his hips is like iron.

McCree lets the tip of his cock bump and drag over the pucker, eliciting a strained curse from the man underneath him.  “And then what, Hanzo?”

Hanzo’s throat works for a few seconds. “And then y-your cock,” he grits out at last, furious, eyes glassy and voice choked with desperation, “ _inside--”_ He breaks off as McCree finally begins to press into him, steady and relentless, his cockhead stretching the slick ring of muscle wide to accommodate his girth.

With how thorough the prep was, it takes only one smooth, seemingly _endless_ thrust until he’s buried to the hilt in that wet, pliant, feverish space inside Hanzo. The inner walls have softened now, the usual resistance in the muscles melted away to leave only molten, welcoming heat. It’s dizzying how eagerly Hanzo’s body accepts him; it practically swallows him in, hugging his cock so perfectly it feels like he was made to be there, sheathed deep inside Hanzo. McCree can’t help the breathless groan that rumbles out from his throat at the intense sensation. For his part, Hanzo reacts just as enthusiastically: spine bowing, legs locking around McCree’s shoulders and keeping him in place, hands clenching white-knuckled in the sheets by his head, spit-slick lips parting to let emerge a hastily stifled, but no less filthy, noise.

McCree tugs Hanzo’s hips higher off the mattress before thrusting back into that tight clutch, setting a steady rhythm while he watches Hanzo’s face for any signs of discomfort.

Hanzo bites his lip. “Faster, Jesse.”

He obeys, quickening his pace until he’s all but slamming into the other man with a brutal rhythm, his cock dragging viciously along the walls of muscle that grip him like they never want to let him go. And Hanzo--Hanzo is _gorgeous:_ his expression thoroughly blissed-out, his loose hair spilling messily out over the white sheets. McCree rakes his eyes over him like a starved man at a feast. The expanse of Hanzo’s skin is slick with sweat like McCree’s own, flawless despite the faint scarring in a few places; the muscles of his arms flex beautifully as he grips the sheets by his head like he’s grasping for an anchor while McCree pounds into him; his pretty, flushed cock leaks steadily into the growing pool on his torso.

McCree leans down to kiss him, near folds him clean in half to do it, his cock pressing even deeper with the new angle. Hanzo takes it easily, _hungrily,_ moaning into McCree’s mouth when their lips slot sloppily together. A couple more thrusts, and one particularly hard shove in at just the right angle, and Hanzo’s coming with a startled moan that cuts to nothing partway through, eyes rolling back and entire body tensing as he spills onto his own stomach and chest.

McCree slows his movements, shaking with the effort of holding back when he’s so close to the edge himself. All he wants to do is shove himself over and over into the other man’s pliant, accepting body but instead, he keeps his thrusts deep and deliberate rather than rough and fast, intent on working Hanzo through his orgasm.

Eventually, the shudders wracking Hanzo’s body die down to occasional shivers. Small sounds drop from his mouth as McCree continues thrusting into his overworked body. Adjusting his grip on the man’s hips, McCree presses an apologetic kiss to his damp temple.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he rasps out between breaths, “just--hold on a bit longer, you're doin' so good.”

“Nn, Jesse.” Hanzo’s voice is ruined and gravel-rough. The sound makes McCree’s dick twitch where it’s buried inside the man. Hanzo lifts his arms, wrapping them around McCree’s neck to hold him close, barely any strain showing on his face despite the fact that his legs are still hooked over McCree’s shoulders, and breathes into his ear, “Keep going.”

McCree’s hips stutter in reflex, shoving him hard into Hanzo and wrenching another beautiful, choked moan from the man’s lips. He can feel his peak swiftly approaching, a mounting pressure that drives his desperate thrusts. Hanzo urges him on, squeezing down around him whenever he pulls back, driving him increasingly mindless with the feeling of his hot, wet clutch, of the feverish warmth in their every point of contact, of Hanzo’s arms clinging to him like a lifeline, of the small, wrecked sounds Hanzo’s making, little punched-out gasps of overstimulation that shoot straight to his cock. Distantly, he becomes aware that he’s making noises too: low, breathless groans and barely-formed growls of the other man’s name as he chases his own pleasure. And then--

He lets his orgasm drag him under, a riptide that shorts out all the circuits in his brain, blows out all his senses so there’s only the white-hot surge of pleasure while Hanzo clenches around him like he’s milking him for all he’s worth.

He doesn’t know how long it is until his high ebbs away. He lets Hanzo’s legs drop from his shoulders then, kissing each ankle before lowering them gently to the bed. Then, he gingerly withdraws from Hanzo’s limp body, discarding his soiled condom in the nearby trash bin. Hanzo tries to sit up, wrinkling his nose at the mess on his torso. McCree shushes him with a light kiss on the lips before lurching off the bed toward the bathroom. Returning with a towel, he cleans them both up then flops back onto the bed.

The pleasant buzz of afterglow suffuses his muscles down to his bones, leaving him light and relaxed. He turns on his side to face Hanzo, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest with his breaths. McCree can’t help but lean over and steal another kiss, this one languid and lingering, flesh hand coming up to cup the man’s cheek. Hanzo hums into the kiss, tangles his fingers in the tousled strands of McCree’s hair while he nips at his tongue.

“That was nice. Why don't we do that more often,” McCree says when they part for air.

Hanzo shifts, turning over onto his side too, and fails to hide his wince. “I can think of one reason.”

“Sorry, sweet pea.” McCree nuzzles behind his ear, runs a soothing hand up and down the curve of his back. “Didn’t push ya too hard, did I?”

“Hardly,” Hanzo huffs. “I will be fine in a little while.”

McCree gropes around for the edge of the blanket and tugs it over them, wiggling around until he’s comfortable. Fuck, is he tired.

“Darlin’?”

“Nn?”

“Do me a favor ‘n’ don’t wake me up b'fore nine.”

“... We shall see.”

 

 

 

They touch down in Numbani the next evening under the cover of dusk. From their drop point, they make straight for the warehouse in the industrial part of town. The air is warm and utterly still. The four of them position themselves across the street from the building with their weapons readied. Unlike last time McCree was here with Ana, there isn’t a peep of activity, clandestine or otherwise--no sign of of another soul for blocks, for that matter. The windows of the warehouse are pitch black, the lot as vacant as a ghost town.

After watching for a few minutes for any movement, they approach the building. Now that he’s up close, McCree notices the telling lack of surveillance cameras on the property. Ana inserts a thin black rectangle into the keycard reader next to the small side entrance. A second later the door clicks open with a soft _beep_ and she cautiously tries the handle. It turns and the door pops open for them.

McCree is the last to file inside. It takes a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The only source of light is the soft glow of the moon which streams in from the high windows and illuminates dim patches on the grey concrete. A cursory sweep reveals nothing but bare gray walls and the skeletal gridlock of a scaffolded ceiling. He steps cautiously deeper into the storehouse. The light tread of his boots the scuffed floors echoes around the hollow space.

Ana makes a gesture with her hand. The rest of them split up to comb the place while she keeps lookout at the door. The warehouse isn’t large so it doesn't take them much time for the three of them to cover the area and ascertain that it’s--

“Empty,” McCree declares, strolling back toward the center of the room after looking behind every column and peeking into every corner on his side. More than that, it is absolutely barren--not a single scrap of debris or discarded bit of litter to be found in the husk of a building.

Lena stands in the middle of the floor with her hands on her hips, looking around. She shoves her goggles back from her face into her hair. “They really did clear out, didn’t they? It’s like there was never anyone here at all.”

_“Have you recovered the bug?”_

“Yeah, Winston, I've got it here. It was right where we left it.”

“I found nothing as well,” Hanzo reports, joining them.

“Looks like this one’s a bust, then,” Lena sighs. “I knew we should have bugged one of those trucks while we had a chance.”

 _“Group, let’s make a round of the outside of the building.”_ Ana’s voice comes through the earpiece. She waves them over from her position by the door.

It’s while he’s casting one last look around the space while heading for the door that McCree catches a glimpse, he thinks, of a figure silhouetted against the faint moonlight pouring in from a window, high above in the scaffolding at the other end of the storehouse. The shape of it is oddly indistinct; it wavers, like he’s seeing it through water.

He blinks and it’s gone, so suddenly he’s nearly convinced he imagined it.

“McCree? Is something the matter?”

He snaps his gaze over to Lena, who's turned around to shoot him a curious look, then quickly back to the same spot. Yep, definitely nothing there. “‘S nuthin’, Trace.” He rubs his sore eyes before he too walks through the exit.

The remainder of the night drags on quietly and without event. Even so, he can’t seem to shake the vague unease from earlier. It’s only later that he realizes the feeling reminded him of the disconcerting weight of watchful eyes.

 

 

 

“I thought I would find you here.”

McCree glances over his shoulder at where Hanzo’s standing in the open door to the gangway.

The man steps forward onto the sunlit platform. “Morrison told me to let you know to expect a briefing tonight for another escort mission for a research lab.”

McCree snorts, removing his cigarillo from his mouth with his metal hand. “He oughta jus’ find me himself, the ol’ geezer.” He blows out a ring of smoke; it twists briefly in the air before the wind whisks it away.

Hanzo walks up next to him and folds his arms over the top of the metal railing, mirroring McCree’s position. The daylight falls softly over the elegant lines and angles of his face as he stares ahead. The breeze plays with the dark strands of his hair, coaxes the bright ribbon in his ponytail into dancing. McCree follows his gaze out across the strait. The sun is just starting to dip low, painting the sky, the water, and the boats on the bay in hues of pink and gold.

Without looking at him, Hanzo says, “I think...” A pause. “... Perhaps he does not know how to speak to you.”

The other man doesn’t meet his gaze when it slides to him. “Nothin’ new there,” McCree says, turning his gaze back to the water and sucking in another mouthful of smoke. Only then does he feel Hanzo’s eyes on him, studying.

McCree takes a careful breath and starts, “Last night, at the storehouse…”

“Yes?”

“Thought I saw someone there. Some _thing,_ I dunno. Was too dark to tell, and it was only there for a tick.”

That gets Hanzo to turn to him properly, mouth pulled down in a frown. “You did not say anything. Are you sure?”

“No.” McCree drags the hand not holding his hat through his hair. “Might very well’ve just been me losin’ my mind.”

“I thought that already happened long ago.” Hanzo looks amused by the way McCree nearly does a double take at his joke, subtle mirth showing in his eyes.

McCree stares for a split moment before deadpanning, “Ha-ha, ain’t you the wise guy.”

“That _is_ concerning,” Hanzo continues, sobering. “I am certain we thoroughly checked the area.”

“Forget I brought it up,” McCree says. “‘S prob’ly just me leaping at shadows.”

“Does that happen often?”

He grins lopsidedly. “All the time, sunshine. ‘S part of my charm. Don’t tell me you’re not the same. I know you.”

Hanzo ruffles slightly, looks like he’s about to retort. That lasts maybe a second before his shoulders relax again and he merely gives a reluctant shake of his head and looks out back out over the water. His expression smooths out into something placid and thoughtful. He looks... peaceful, almost. _Beautiful,_ McCree thinks, with the soft rays of the sunset falling on the handsome angles of his profile, the curve of his high cheekbones and jaw.

Hanzo must notice McCree watching him because he turns to face him, brow furrowing.

“What?” he asks shortly.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hanzo hesitates before answering, “It is… pleasant out here. I can see why you favor it.”

“‘S a lot more pleasant with you.” When Hanzo stares at him blankly, McCree slaps on an expression of exaggerated surprise. “Did I say that aloud? Whoopsie.”

“You are ridiculous.” The corners of his mouth are dimpled, McCree notes.

“There you two are.”

They turn. Lena’s standing at the door in a simple orange t-shirt and black gym shorts. She beams at them, the breeze ruffling the perky spikes of her hair. “It's nearly dinner time, come on. Reinhardt’s making his famous pot roast--you know, one he claims to be ‘heartiest in all the land’.”

McCree straightens and plops his hat on his head. “Well now, can’t rightly refuse an offer like that, can we?” He sweeps his arm toward the door, the folds of his serape accentuating the motion. “After you.”

Hanzo steps past him, nodding at Lena, who hops to one side to let the two of them pass through. Behind them, the long slabs of gold cast by the setting sun that spill into the hallway narrow and disappear as the door slides smoothly to a close.

 

 

 

_“Report status, Talon three and Talon four.”_

_“Talon three to Talon two. On standby. We’ve got a lock-on on target. Code blue.”_

_“Talon four to Talon two. En route, t-minus 4 minutes. Way’s clear. Code blue.”_

_“Acknowledged. On my signal. Commencing operation phase two.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading!


	6. CONFIDENCE

 

_"You ever killed before?”_

_“What?”_

_“You heard me. Ever killed a guy before?”_

_“What’s it matter?”_

_For a moment, he thinks he might have overstepped a line, but all he feels is a contemplative gaze on the top of his head while he turns Peacekeeper over and over in his palms. The metal is warm from his touch. The weighty heft of it sits solid in his grip. An assurance._

_“Either way. Didn’t do too shabby today, kid.”_

_“I ain't a kid,” he snipes without looking up. It comes out more petulant than he’d intended._

_“Isn't that what you are? Jesse the Kid.” The deep, almost harsh, bark of laughter is dry despite the joke._

_He bites back a retort. It’s not worth it._

_“C’mon, chin up.” A hand reaches down and gives his hair a careless tousling, the texture of the thick glove stiff and rough against his head--near knocks his hat off. Jesse squawks and straightens, scrambling to catch it before it falls._

_“I mean it, though.” A dark gaze cuts briefly to him. “Isn’t easy, what you did today. Maybe you don’t get it now, but you will. Staring death in the eyes takes its toll.”_

_“Sir…”_

_“What?”_

_He hesitates. “... Nothin’.”_

_“What, cat got your tongue or something?”_

_He shrugs._

_“Make sure you keep that head of yours out of the clouds,_ chamaco. _"_

_Reyes turns away, heading for the hangar exit, a rectangle illuminated by the glow from the corridor just beyond. Jesse gets to his feet, shoving Peacekeeper back in its holster as he does, and follows. On his way out, he passes the bulky, now-still form of the aircraft, parked in its dim cradle in the hangar, silent but still giving off residual heat like a beast falling gradually back into slumber._

 

 

 

McCree’s not sure how long he’s been working the sandbag in front of his face, can’t remember when he started and has no inkling of what time it is in the windowless room, but there’s a good burn in his muscles now so it’s probably been a while. He’s so focused on the rhythmic thud of fist on synthetic leather that he starts when Zarya’s face pops into his vision.

“Whoa there.” He straightens, laying a hand on the punching bag to still it. ”Didn’t hear ya come in.”

“I noticed,” she says with amusement. She gestures to her ears and nods at him. “Those are new, yes?”

He plucks out his earbuds and gathers them in one wrapped fist. The wireless buds, on loan from Lúcio, are made of a matte black chrome. Certainly not the best pair money can buy, but they’re simple and unobtrusive and suit his needs just fine. “Yeah. I’m, uh, tryin’ ‘em out.”

“Music, yes? How do you like it so far?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” He slips his phone out of the pocket of his loose sweats to flick off the sound then tosses the earbuds to one side; they land neatly next to his water bottle by the wall. “Anyway, ain’t seen you ‘round the base in a bit.”

Zarya steps away, tugging the clean towel from her shoulders to drop it on a bench. She’s wearing a plain black sleeveless shirt, printed with a faded logo of some band he doesn’t recognize, over a pair of gray sweatpants, barefoot, hair pushed up and back. “I have been out on missions for the past week.”

“Whereabouts?” he asks, wandering over to his own towel and quickly mopping off his face.

“Volskaya for a few days,” the other agent answers, “and then an unplanned stop at Krasnoyarsk.”

“That’s where the omnium is, yeah?”

“Yes. Amari requested that we check on things there before we returned.” A shrug. “There was nothing. Quiet, as usual.”

He scratches his chin. “I see.”

Zarya walks back over to him. “I heard about your mission in Numbani, with Talon. We could not find anything in Krasnoyarsk, but perhaps there is something going on with the omniums elsewhere. It would not surprise me.”

He just grunts in response and adjusts the tape wrapped tightly around his flesh hand.

“But enough of that subject now,” she declares suddenly, drawing up to her full height. “How about a short match, you and me?”

“I ain’t one to pass up a good spar,” he answers, perking up with a grin. “You’re on.”

She grins back in kind, pearly-white teeth showing. “Beating you will make for good stress relief, and then afterward I can use your body for lifting.”

“Heh, we’ll see ‘bout that.”

He takes another swig of water then sets his phone down beside his other things while Zarya quickly tapes up her hands to match his. They move away from the equipment and over to the large floormat, standing atop it, facing each other.

Zarya flashes her teeth again. “Ready, little man?”

“One rule,” he says, holding up a finger. “Careful with the face. I’d like to keep it pretty.”

She barks out a laugh. “I do not think that is the word I would choose, but whatever you say, cowboy,” she chortles, dropping into defensive stance.

They circle each other, sizing each other up. McCree keeps his arms up and close to himself, wary of her strength. Bouncing on his toes, he deftly dodges out of the way of her first punch--an experimental strike more than anything--and blocks the second with his forearm, following it immediately with a jab that gets only air. He’s glad he’s well warmed up; his ducking and weaving wouldn’t come so smoothly otherwise. Zarya may have a couple inches on him and more than as many pounds but McCree’s wily and it’s not the first time he’s squared off against someone larger than him. Granted, it hasn’t happened in a good while but the point still stands. Like riding a bicycle and all that.

“Come on, cowboy. Why so timid? You are like a mouse.”

He doesn’t bite. “When you got as many years as I do under the belt, Zarya, y’learn keeping a bit of caution’s a good thing.”

“Caution?” She grins wickedly. “I have never heard of it.”

Her next punch comes swift as a cobra’s strike but he anticipated it. Dancing neatly out of its way, he uses the momentum of the follow-through to get in close and throw a quick punch of his own. His strike connects with the side of her jaw but she barely stumbles and he’s forced to jump back fast to avoid her fist.

They face each other again. He eyes her stance. It’s impressively guarded and balanced. One thing he’s got going for him, though, is Zarya’s no expert brawler; she may be strong but she’s fairly easy to read, and McCree wasn't exaggerating his own experience. He’s been in his fair share of fights, knows how to read his opponents for intent and weaknesses. Zarya’s got plenty of confidence and the sheer power to back it up, but she’s not very light of foot--likely has never had the need to be, really, with the way she’s built like a brickhouse. He could _probably_ get in and attempt a throw if he could upset her guard and get a good-enough grip, but he’s not so ballsy--or stupid--to try something like that this early in the fight. If he could only shake her balance a bit...

He’s finds no such opportunity as the two of them continue to circle like boxers in the ring, jumping in close every now and then to exchange a flurry of blows before pulling back again. McCree takes advantage of the strength of his cybernetic arm any chance he can, to block and to grapple, all while eyeing her every movement like a hawk through the burn of the sweat in his vision. He _almost_ knocks her off her feet once with an attempted parry and leg sweep but he misjudges the weight distribution and just barely manages to catch her fist with his metal hand before it connects with his nose.

After they each land a couple solid knocks on the other, McCree spots a sliver of an opening. He takes it with a mental _fuck it,_ lunging in close to try for a grab. The gutsy move ends, predictably, with him getting slammed to the mat, the breath clear knocked out of him, and a thick forearm shoved against his throat, threatening to crush his windpipe. Zarya relents only when he grudgingly whacks the ground to tap out. He lays where he is and stares at the ceiling for a few moments after she gets up.

“Not bad. But this round goes to me, I think,” she says, smirking, and extends a hand to him. He’s comforted to see that her breathing is as labored as his own.

“If I’m not flat out cold after a round with you it’s a win in my books,” he wheezes, taking it to pull himself to his feet with a groan.

“Are your bones holding up?” she ribs.

“I’ll live,” he drawls, rubbing at his sore neck. Damn, but that takedown wasn’t kind on him. He trudges over to his towel and wipes the sweat out of his eyes, then slings it over his shoulder and announces, “Well, I think I’m ‘bout done for today."

“You look like you could use a break. How long have you been down here?”

“Dunno.” He checks his phone's screen. “Fuck, ‘s four already. Where the hell’d the day go?”

She claps a large hand on his shoulder. “You have been back at the base for a few days now, yes? Do not tell me you have been spending all your time in here.”

McCree widens his eyes. “What’s this? _The_ great Aleksandra Zaryanova objecting to spending time at the gym? Do my ears deceive me? Did I knock you upside the head too hard?”

“You wish,” she laughs. “You know I do not disapprove, McCree, but trapping yourself in this basement cannot be good for your sanity.”

“Naw, I haven’t. Just lost track of time ‘s all.” He scoops up his water bottle and phone with one hand and gives her a jaunty salute with the other. “Later.”

He saunters out of the gym room and makes his way down the coolly-lit hallway towards his room, only to pause in his steps when he spots a familiar figure striding toward him, holding a sheet of paper in one hand.

“Ana!” he greets her, surprised. “Welcome back. I take it you wrapped things up in Numbani?”

“Sort of,” the woman answers as he falls into step with her. “Do you remember that recording we got from the Talon warehouse?”

“The one that mentioned an omnium?”

“Yes. And not omnium-- _somnium._ Latin word for ‘dream’ or ‘fantasy’,” she says, holding the paper out to him.

He takes it. The paper’s made of a heavy, vellum-like material lined with creases, like it was crumpled then smoothed out, and ripped around the edges. The bottom is partially torn off. One face is printed with lines of black, no-nonsense type:

 

> [APPROVED FOR DUPLICATION] 
> 
> **OPERATION:** RD-0142W    **STATUS:** ACTIVE  
>  **CLASSIFICATION LEVEL:** 2-B  
>  **ALIAS:** “PROJECT SOMNIUM”
> 
> **EXEC. OPERATIVE(S):** T-023 “D██████”  
>  **ASST. OPERATIVE(S):** T-181 “F██████”, T-202 “J██████”, T-213 “B██████”, T-229 “L██████”  
>  **EXT. CORRESPONDENT(S):** ██████, ██████ “H” - BERN, CH 
> 
> **REPORT FOLLOWING**
> 
> **\----**
> 
> **> UPDATE 20XX-05-17**  
>  [PRIORITY: HIGH]  
>  BEGIN ACQUISITION OF COMPOUND ██████ BY REQUEST. **DEST:** FACILITY-CH8-C.  
>  **REF:** OP. AAD-0233D
> 
> **> UPDATE 20XX-05-11**  
>  BEGIN R &D. ██████████████████
> 
> **> UPDATE 20XX-05-07**  
>  INITIATE CORRESPONDENCE WITH “H”. BEGIN PHASE ONE.

 

Ana explains, “We were finally able to get into the other warehouse in Numbani. There was more activity there than we expected, so we had to wait until it was mostly cleared out to investigate. It’s where we found this.”

“‘Fantasy’, huh…” McCree mutters. “Any relation to the drug?”

“I don’t doubt that there is. And this”--she taps the sheet, right above ‘BERN, CH’--“Bern, Switzerland. That’s where two of the raided med labs are located. I doubt it’s mere coincidence.”

He rakes his eyes over the document again. “The last update on here’s May seventeenth... That’s two weeks ago.”

“That’s also around when the first lab break-ins were reported. There must be a reason all of this is happening at the same time.”

McCree blows a breath through his teeth. “We heading to Bern, then?”

“Not quite yet. We need more info than this. I’m going to talk to Winston and see if we can dig up some more leads. For now--”

“--just sit tight,” he finishes. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.”

 

 

 

_The sky over the Atlantic is pitch-black and starless. The rumbling of the aircraft engine jostles him in his seat. It’s dark inside the carrier, too, and deathly silent despite the constant shaking. The ambient strips of light lining the cabin walls--dull, matte red--are the only things cutting through the darkness. From his window, the ocean looks like a massive expanse of black that stretches out to the very edges of the far horizon. He’s alone, he thinks. Or maybe he isn’t. He can’t tell._

_Below, the black waves swell in choppy, roiling motions. They toss, agitated and rising ever closer, as the turbulent shaking of the transport smooths into something more resembling the acute thrum of a hypertrain. The wind is cold as it whips past his ears, snatching at his hat and hair, but it’s not nearly as cold as the ocean when it envelops him. It’s freezing--a stark, burning cold that presses against him from all directions, hard and oppressive like ice. It takes only an instant for the numbing cold to soak through to his core._

_He fights to keep his head above the waterline, pushing and kicking against the icy water fruitlessly while it yanks him under. His lungs feel like fire, burning like they’ve been riddled with bullets. Freezing liquid floods into his mouth and nose, fills his throat like blood. Still, there is no sound._

_Above, he can just make out the distorted circle of the moon through the surface of the water--an eerie red orb that continues to shrink no matter how much he bids his leaden limbs to thrash. His chest is heavy with invisible weight. His left arm throbs in agonizing pulses. The water feels like a thousand hands grabbing at him, hands that drag his floundering body down, down, down toward the void below._

_The fight saps rapidly from his muscles. He’s suffocating on the blackness seeping painfully into the corners of his cloudy vision and there’s--_

_\--something splintering the silence, insistent and fuzzy like it's coming from far away. It increases in volume until he can almost distinguish the urgent murmurs--_

“--sse. Jesse.”

A face materializes into dim focus and, behind it, a dark ceiling. It takes him a moment to realize it’s Hanzo, and to remember that he’d climbed into McCree’s bed that night and cozied up next to him. At the moment, though, there’s about a foot or so of space between them. The other man’s--for lack of a better term--hovering. Keeping a careful distance. His expression is tight with concern.

“Breathe, Jesse.”

Groggily, he hauls himself into sitting position and slumps over himself with his head hanging low. His eyes feel sore and gritty, his hollow arm port staticky. He can’t seem to focus his gaze on the dull sheets pooled around his lower half, and barely notices Hanzo inching closer in his periphery.

Facing him, Hanzo lifts both hands toward his face--slowly so he sees it coming. Even so, he flinches when they make contact. The touch is warm and excruciatingly gentle. Hanzo's thumbs lightly stroke the skin below his eyes; his fingers thread themselves through the hair over his ears as he presses their foreheads together. McCree notices then that he’s trembling: tiny, minute tremors that he can’t seem to quell.

“You are here,” Hanzo states, firmly. “I am with you.”

McCree forces himself to exhale, then inhale.

“Are you?” Hanzo’s voice is a low murmur in his ears. McCree blinks. His head feels like it's spinning, still reeling from the comedown from his nightmare. Hanzo firms his hold and peers into his eyes like he’s searching for something. “Are you with me?” he repeats.

Belatedly, McCree manages a clumsy nod. He reaches up with his right hand and clasps one of Hanzo’s resting on his cheek.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. His voice feels rough and scratchy.

Hanzo shakes his head and pulls back slightly. “Are you alright?” The hand not under McCree’s grip drops away.

McCree dips his head in another heavy nod. “It’s, uh. Been a while.”

“You were gasping for breath,” Hanzo tells him, worry written in the deep furrow in his brow. "It sounded like you were choking.”

He grimaces. “Nothing but a bad dream, sweetheart,” he says. He strokes his thumb over Hanzo’s knuckles in apology. “Dunno what brought it on.”

It’s not the first time either of them have had a nightmare in the other’s company, of course. More than once he's woken up to Hanzo shaking beside him in the darkness, struck by some terrible nightmare. It happens.

“‘M fine,” McCree assures him. “Woulda woken up eventually.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Hanzo responds, frowning.

He finally releases Hanzo’s hand, but not before bringing it to his lips to brush a kiss against the knuckles. “Thanks, though. I owe ya at least a blowie.”

The other man blinks in confusion. “A--” He cuts off abruptly. _"No._ You owe me nothing.”

“So ya _don’t_ want a blowie from me?” McCree asks, widening his eyes plaintively.

Hanzo looks mildly alarmed now. “No, I. Well. Not now--and certainly not out of any sense of obligation. And--you are laughing at me.”

McCree lets his snickers escape him; they shake his shoulders as they bubble out. Perhaps he's more unsettled by his dream than he'd thought, because his laughter’s edging on the line to crazy even by his standards. Still, it takes his mind off of the unnerving sensation of phantom fingers clinging to his skin.

Hanzo flops backward and runs his hand over his face, hiding from McCree's sight. McCree lays back down too and grabs him around the torso with his one arm, still chuckling. “Sorry, honeybun.”

“You are terrible.” Hanzo’s voice, muffled by his palm, doesn’t sound too irked.

“Mighty sorry,” he repeats, nuzzling his face into the crook of the other man’s neck, the solid anchor of warmth in his arms chasing away the chill in his bones. “Forgive me?” He nudges at Hanzo’s chin, trying to get the man to reveal his expression. Hanzo's face--or, what he can see of it in the dark--is disappointingly blush-free when he finally moves his hand. When their eyes meet, McCree smiles up at him and says, “I’d gladly blow ya any day, sugarpea.”

Hanzo shakes his head with an exasperated huff. “Thank you. I suppose.” He drops his head back onto the pillow. “Now, if you could be so kind, we have an early day tomorrow and I would like to get some more sleep before then.”

It takes McCree a little bit longer to find sleep after Hanzo drifts off again, but when he does, it’s dreamless.

 

 

 

“You know,” Lena says, “I really think we’re getting better.”

“I’d sure hope so with how grueling these early trainings are,” McCree grumbles; his muscles are still aching from all the bolting around he had to do during their combat simulations.

“What do you think, Hanzo?” Lena asks, turning to him as the three of them stroll into the kitchen.

The archer ponders for a moment. “I believe we have made improvement as well. The numbers certainly point to it.”

“Exactly! Why, Athena complimented us _three_ times in a single run! I’ve never heard that happen before.”

McCree stretches his arms above his head with a groan, wincing when he hears several pops. “Well, I need me some coffee,” he declares, heading straight for the cupboard. “Want any?”

Lena chirps an affirmative while Hanzo shakes his head.

“Mei, Satya, either of ya want any coffee?” he asks, tipping his head toward the two women sitting at the table as he grabs the tin from the shelf.

“No thank you, Jesse,” Mei replies, holding up a cute blue snowflake-patterned teacup for him to see. It matches the cup resting in Satya’s hands. “We are having tea.”

He straightens back around. “Alrighty then, two cups it is.” Whistling, he sets about doing the routine task of scooping out grounds into the brew basket. When the machine beeps a few minutes later, he wastes no time pouring the piping hot coffee into the first mug he grabs from the cupboard (it’s got ‘U MAD?’ printed on it in large pink letters, so he suspects it originally belonged to Hana), leaving just enough room for cream and sugar. He hands the cup to the Lena with a flourish.

“Cheers, luv,” she says, toasting him with it as she pops over to the fridge.

For himself, he fills a plain red mug all the way up to the brim. He cradles it in his flesh hand, the ceramic pleasantly hot against his skin, and inhales a deep whiff of the aroma before taking his first sip. Unfortunately, his blissful moment is interrupted when a familiar snowy head--unusually visor-free this morning--pops into the kitchen.

“We got news,” Morrison says by way of greeting.

McCree raises an eyebrow at the soldier’s grim--well, grimmer than usual--tone. “Bad, I take it?”

“We’ve got reports of three missing medical researchers, all of them Swiss or German.”

“What do you mean ‘missing’?” Hanzo asks.

“Just what it sounds like,” the soldier replies, mouth twisting wryly. “They never showed up at their labs Monday morning.”

McCree’s grip tightens around his mug. “Y’think they were kidnapped or somethin’?”

“Or worse?” Lena chips in, eyes wide as saucers.

“I dunno, being kidnapped by Talon seems pretty bottom of the barrel to me.”

Lena turns to him. “You think it was Talon?”

He scowls. “Who the hell else could it be? They’ve been raiding med labs left ‘n’ right. What’s to stop ‘em from snatching a couple of researchers while they’re at it?”

“We don’t know for sure yet what happened,” Morrison forcefully interjects, “but rest assured, we’re looking into it.”

As if on cue, all of their phones ping with simultaneous notifications:

 

> 10:11 WED, JUN 02  
>  **[REQUEST INCOMING - URGENT]**  
>  \--  
>     
>  To: MCCREE, HANZO, SOLDIER: 76, TRACER  
>  Presence requested ASAP at LAB-W  
>     
>  \--  
>  **> ACCEPT ** | DECLINE

 

McCree sighs, then hits ‘accept’. “Coffee?” he offers Morrison.

Wearily, the man shakes his head. “You know that stuff doesn’t do anything for me.”

“As always, Jack,” McCree says solemnly, “you have my deepest condolences.”

Winston’s in the middle of the lab when they get there, with Ana standing beside him. Both agents are looking at the glowing holodisplay screens arranged around them. The scientist waves them in as soon as he spots them at the door.

“Hello there. I assume Morrison already relayed the news?”

“Yeah, what’s this about missing researchers, Winston?” Lena asks as they all gather around the screens.

Winston’s tone is grave as he explains: “Earlier today, three researchers were reported missing as of Monday with no leads.” He presses a key and the pictures of three people appear, each with a name displayed beneath it. “Dr. Rafael Birenbaum, researcher at Aetech BioLaboratories in Munich, Germany, in the experimental nanorobotic medicine division. Dr. Camil Leisy, research fellow at NOXXA Labs in Basel, Switzerland. Was most recently assisting with research involving nanobiotic medical techniques. And Dr. Feride Sadik, researcher at Herz Biotech in Bern, Switzerland. Co-authored a paper last year about nanobot application in targeted regenerative therapy at the cellular level. The labs they work at were also victims of the recent Talon raids.”

McCree inspects the photos: two men, one who looks to be in his forties and the other, with black-rimmed glasses, in his thirties, and a woman in a headscarf, probably mid- to late-forties. None of them spark any recognition on his end. Still, he feels a chill slither down his spine and settle in his gut as he looks between their images.

“There’s more,” Winston continues, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We think we’ve found a connection between all of them. Each of these researchers are involved in some way with the research of nanorobotics--specifically, experimental nanobot applications in biomedicine. Now, if we look at the facilities that have been targeted so far...” He brings up a map of Germany and Switzerland. Overlaid on top, glowing green dots indicate the locations of the labs; connected squares contain images of the corresponding facilities. “Two in Berlin, one each in Munich and Basel, and two in Bern,” he lists, “all of which are known to be conducting research in this same field.” Turning back to them, he adds, “Now, as you know, nanobot use in medicine isn't uncommon. But the research these labs have been pursuing is especially cutting edge.”

“I’m sure you’ve all put two and two together already,” Ana says. “Of course, we don’t know for sure this is the reason they’ve been targeted by Talon, but it’s definitely a connection, and an unsettling one at that.”

“Why is Talon so interested in biomedicine all of a sudden?” Lena wonders, before stopping herself with a shake of her head. “Actually, never mind. I think I can think of at least a few reasons.”

“And none of them comforting,” McCree drawls, staring up at the holodisplays. “Somehow, I don’t think Talon’s looking to further modern medicine for posterity.”

By the looks of it, none of the others do, either.

 

 

 

“How is your left arm?”

“Arm’s fine.”

“Sleeping patterns regular?”

“More or less.”

“How many drinks have you had this week?”

“Depends on your definition of a drink,” McCree hedges. He counters Angela’s flat look with a cheeky wink. “Two.”

That garners him a raised eyebrow. “Just two?”

“Well, three, technically, but one of those was two beers ‘n’ those don’t count.”

“Mhm.” The doctor notes something down on the datapad on the table next to her. “Have you noticed any abnormalities in your health, etcetera?” she asks, tugging on a pair of white nitrile gloves.

“Nope.” He draws out the syllable and pops the ‘p’.

He doesn’t blink when she pokes the needle into his forearm and draws a sample of blood in one practiced motion--it’s only routine--though the cheerful green frog band-aid she slaps on him afterward does get a raised brow.

“It’s one of Lúcio’s,” she tells him, turning away to transfer the contents of the syringe into a vial. “We’re out of the regular ones. It's cute, no?”

He grunts. “Sure is.”  The frog is winking too, upon closer inspection.

Angela walks over to the array of sleek medical contraptions on one side of her office and pops the tube into a scanner of some sort. She fiddles with the device for few moments before returning with her datapad.

“What's the verdict, doc?”

“Hm.” She scans the information on her screen. “You could use some more calcium in your diet, and you also have slightly low levels of vitamin B12 and magnesium, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. Other than that... you appear to be 'right as rain’, as you say.”

“Wow. Don't hear that very often,” he jokes.

She snorts. “You get a healthy amount of exercise. Certainly more exposure to bodily harm than most doctors would recommend”--she gives him a wry smile--“but I'm not most doctors. Though you could benefit from being less reckless. And quitting smoking.” She holds up a hand to silence him. “Yes, I realize I say this every time and you still haven’t taken the advice, so I’ll save you the spiel.”

He watches her fiddle with her datapad a bit more, tapping his feet against his stool while he waits.

At last, she declares, “Okay. You’re good to go, Jesse.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.” She looks at him and shrugs. “Drink more water?”

He tips his hat. “Much obliged.” Standing, he watches as she disposes of the sample and needle then wipes everything down thoroughly. “Was gonna stop by the kitchen if y’wanted to join me.”

She smiles at him. “Are you insinuating that I should take a break?”

“I ain’t _not_ insinuating that.”

“Sure, why not. Just give me a moment.” She tugs off her gloves, drops them in the trash receptacle, then washes her hands in the small sink nearby. “Alright. Shall we?”

McCree follows her out of her office. “So. Those missing researchers, huh,” he remarks lightly.

She looks ahead as she walks, her hands stuffed deep in the pockets of her lab coat, her steps unhurried but not lazy. “What about them?”

“Whaddya think Talon could want with ‘em?”

“We don’t know for sure they were kidnapped by Talon,” she points out, glancing at him.

He just looks at her. A moment later, she sighs tiredly, looking away. “... I don’t know.”

“It’s concerning though, ain’t it. Three top-notch researchers, disappearing into thin air without a trace.”

“Of course I’m worried," Angela says. "I don’t know any of them personally but they are familiar names in the field.”

He stuffs his hands into his jeans and gazes up at the gray ceiling. “'S been three days since they were reported missing ‘n’ we still ain’t got a single lead on their whereabouts, even with Winston running searches nonstop.”

“There’s not much else we can do. It’s not like we can comb all of Germany and Switzerland for them, and that’s assuming they’re still in those countries.”

“Talon’s sure been doing an awful lotta poking around,” he mutters. “First the whole drug thing in Numbani ‘n’ now this. Something’s in the water.”

“And we will get to the bottom of it,” Angela adds, tone firm. “I have the utmost certainty.”

McCree's not nearly so confident, but he decides to keep that to himself.

 

 

 

Two days pass before any further development. Angela’s the one who summons them this time, sending an unexpected “Presence requested ASAP” to McCree, Hanzo, and Lena. The moment everyone’s gathered in her lab, she gets right down to business.

“Sorry about the short notice,” she tells them, “but we just received more information. Winston’s busy working with Ana and Jack at the moment so he asked me to fill you three in.”

“Not more bad news, I hope?” Lena smiles weakly.

“Not quite. Let me show you.” The doctor presses a button on her datapad and brings up a holodisplay. On the screen is what looks to McCree to be some kind of rough diagram--no more than a sketch, really--annotated with scientific scrawl he can’t make heads or tail of at first glance.

He scratches his head. “What’re we looking at, exactly?”

“One of Talon’s files, we suspect,” Angela explains. She meets their surprised stares levelly. “Athena discovered it. It’s a research proposal or report of some sort. A recent one. It’s still rather crude, much of it mere conjecture at this point, but the intent is clear enough.” She points at a part of the diagram. “It’s a outline of a plan for some kind of… immuno-altering compound using nanobots as a vehicle. In other words: a nanobot virus.”

“A bio-weapon,” Hanzo says, expression grim.

“A _concept_ for one. And, yes, essentially.” Angela runs her fingers through her bangs. “Athena managed to dig up this document. It’s marked as being part of a ‘Project Somnium’.”

“So now we know why Talon’s been chasing after what they have been,” McCree muses aloud.

“Very likely so, yes. And here’s the most interesting thing: this proposal mentions a compound ‘C-142’, which they refer to here as ‘somnium’.” Angela gestures to a figure on the corner of the screen--a structural diagram of the compound in question. “It’s a little-known synthetic compound that the _Biomedica-Institut_ in Berlin recently discovered has potential applications in nanorobotic medicine for its immunosuppressive or anti-rejection effects. And”--she meets their eyes squarely--“it can be found in concentrated amounts in a certain street drug you all know as ‘Fantasy’.”

The room is silent as the information sinks in.

“Sunnovabitch,” McCree breathes finally, breaking the spell.

“And since the drug is unregulated, it is all the easier for it to be trafficked,” Hanzo adds.

“Precisely,” Angela replies with a nod.

McCree looks over to her thoughtfully. “There’s something else, ain’t there?”

She takes a breath before continuing: “Obviously, all of this isn’t exactly common knowledge. Far from it, in fact. This field of research is very cutting edge, not to mention specialized.”

“Maybe they got the scoop from those researchers they kidnapped?” Lena offers.

 _“Possibly_ kidnapped,” the doctor corrects her. “And I don’t think so. Talon knew about it before those researchers disappeared--that’s why they hijacked the Fantasy trade. And if they’re somehow knowledgeable enough about the subject to start developing speculative tech around it…” she trails off.

“Y’think they got another outside source. A mole.”

“Perhaps, yes, possibly in--”

“--Bern,” McCree finishes for her, remembering. “Ana showed me the document you two retrieved in Numbani, Lena, about this ‘Project Somnium’ thing. It mentioned an external correspondent in Bern.”

“Indeed,” Angela agrees. She dismisses the holodisplays with a flick of her wrist. “Anyways, that’s all I had to tell you three. I’ll send you a copy of what we found to your devices. We should be able to move forward with the investigation with these new leads.” She turns away to set her datapad back in its dock by her desk.

McCree loiters around as Lena and Hanzo make their exit, then approaches Angela when the other two are gone.

Noticing him, Angela asks, “Did you need something else, Jesse?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, “where’d we really get this info?”

She looks at him sharply. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“C’mon, Angie,” he prods. “Don’t tell me it just fell from the sky.”

“I told you, Athena found the file today.”

He rolls his eyes. “D’you take me for an idiot? Y’don’t just _misplace_ sensitive info like this, 'specially if you’re Talon.”

When the doctor remains silent, he takes a step forward. “What’re y’all hiding, Angela?”

“I’m--we’re not _hiding_ anything,” she replies tersely.

“Well, it sure as hell feels like it,” he growls.

She recoils slightly, eyebrows knitting together. At that moment, McCree becomes aware that he’s leaned forward, is nearly looming over her now with his jaw clenched tight and his arms still folded over his chest, hands balled into fists. With the realization comes an awful splash of harsh, icy guilt in his veins. He forces himself to ease up and shrink back.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, rubbing his eyes. “I didn't mean to be an ass, I jus’--”

“No,” she interrupts, “I--I get it. You don't--” She cuts off and runs her fingers through her bangs. Takes a deep breath. “You’re right. We didn't just 'find’ this information.” A brief pause, then: “In fact, it was more like _it_ found us.”

“What’d’you--?”

“Somebody sent it to us directly.”

“‘Somebody’?”

“We don't know who… they were entirely anonymous other than a single identifier.” She taps at her tablet then shows him a screen with a single word.

“'SOMBRA’,” he reads, and frowns. “‘Shadow’?”

“So it seems. Do you recognize the name?”

For a beat, he thinks he feels something niggling in the back of his mind, like a stray synapse firing, but the thought is long gone before it can form. “Can’t say I do,” he answers.

“Neither do we, yet. We’re cross-referencing all our data sources right now. Whomever it is, they managed to bypass all of our security measures and left no trace, signature, or proxy trail. Nothing. Not even with Athena’s strict protocols.”

“Vigilante? Talon agent? But then why would they tell us this?”

“We don't know. All we do know is they apparently have access--or is able to gain access--to classified Talon information.” She sighs. “Look, I didn't mean to hide it from you, or anyone for that matter. Winston knows too, and so do Ana and Jack. We just wanted to make sure of things before we told everybody. Our systems are highly secure, we’ve triple checked that.”

McCree grimaces. “Apparently not secure enough.”

She exhales. “... Yeah.”

“Y’don't really trust this… _leak_ do ya? Not when we got no clue who it’s from.”

“I know, but it's all we have to go off of right now.”

“Just feels like we're being played, and I don't like it one bit.”

“None of us do.”

At last, McCree groans and declares, “I need a smoke.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, and says, sheepishly, “Apologies again for getting all worked up ‘n’ yelling at ya.”

The doctor offers him an attempt at a smile. “It’s alright, I understand. I’ll let you know if we find out anything new.”

With that, he leaves her to her work. He almost doesn’t notice Hanzo waiting just outside as the door slides shut.

“Oh. You’re still here,” McCree says dumbly.

Hanzo merely gives him an unreadable look as the two of them set off down the hall.

“I take it you heard everything we said, then? ‘Bout the anonymous tip-off.” Hanzo nods. McCree runs a hand through his hair. “‘S a real shit mess of a situation, if y’ask me.”

“An anonymous informant... How convenient,” Hanzo mutters lowly. “I can hardly believe that it would be an act of charity. What could they be playing at?”

“Ah, there’s that pessimism I know ‘n’ expect from ya.”

“Not pessimistic-- _realistic,”_ Hanzo corrects him, emphatically. “And I know you have your own suspicions as well.”

McCree snorts. “Aren’t we two peas in a pod.”

The other man is quiet for a spell before speaking up again. “Do you remember when you asked whether I wanted to drink with you on the roof?”

“Few nights ago, and you so eagerly declined?” McCree smirks at the memory. “Sure do, sweetheart. Why?”

“I think I would like that drink now,” Hanzo admits.

“You got it,” McCree laughs, slapping him good-naturedly on the back. And had it not been for Mei walking by at that instant, he would've attempted to kiss him right there in the hallway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading. Also, I've got something real exciting planned for the next chapter, just fyi. At least, I find it exciting. Cheers!


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